“How much longer ’til iftar?” Eight-year-old me places my hands on the table as my mother sets out plates.
This is my first time fasting for Ramadan, a holy month for Muslims where we strengthen our spirituality by abstaining from eating and drinking from sunrise to sunset. Mother smiles at my impatience, “We have 10 minutes left.” With a sigh, I hug my stomach and try not to drool at the feast she is laying out.
In my family, the meal that breaks the fast, known as iftar, meant indulging in her famous roasted chicken, crimson from the special marinade it soaks in overnight. Next to it lies a tray of freshly fried samosas, each golden triangle containing either potato and peas, ground beef, or—my favorite—jalapeño and cheddar. There is always fragrant basmati rice, steaming gently with cinnamon and bay leaves. Lastly, a giant bowl of chopped fruit sits crowned with caramel-colored dates. “Here, help me pour the Rooh Afza,” my mother hands me a pitcher of the rose-colored liquid with basil seeds. Cautiously, I pour this pink delight into each glass and top it with mint from our garden.
In a few minutes, my family is seated around the table, and our wall clock sings the call to evening prayer. “We can eat now!” I exclaim as I grab a date and bite into it. Its rich sweetness melts on my tongue, tasting like the best thing ever as the rest of my family share words of gratitude before breaking their fast.
Looking back on these memories, I can’t help but laugh at how much I focused on food in Ramadan. As a kid, being able to fast is a big achievement. It’s exhilarating to break the fast because eating is a reward you can take pleasure in. To me, Ramadan was the one month out of the year my family put extra effort into curating joyous eating experiences. Whether at home, visiting relatives and friends, or attending dinners at the local mosque, I reveled in the joy of consuming a variety of food that was normally saved for special occasions. These experiences helped shape me into a food connoisseur, but more importantly, appreciate what it means to have a relationship with each other through food.
In the mainstream, abstaining from food has been portrayed as a large part of Ramadan—but that’s not all there is. One of the principles behind fasting is to recenter your spiritual self, understanding that the human body is temporary while the soul is eternal. Fasting is simply an exercise to help cultivate this mind-set.
Ramadan is about the connection we have with each other—something food teaches us. From the earth, to the hands of farmers, to our table, we are all connected. I didn’t realize this profound truth in my childhood, but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve gained an appreciation for the power of eating together and acknowledging the hands our food passes through. When you share a meal with others, food tastes better, and it’s even sweeter when you know your meal’s origins, such as local farms that diligently tend the land. Being mindful of that communal spirit is a hallmark of what it means to gather for Ramadan.
Outside, the sky shifts into an enchanting purple, the color when lemon is added to butterfly pea tea. I pull the tray of chestnut-colored date madeleines out of the oven, steam fogging my glasses. My table is set with flaky pastries filled with mushrooms, onions, and thyme. Delicate parcels of citrus salmon en papillote sit next to a platter of saffron rice and one of sliced fruit from the farmers’ market. My phone buzzes with a notification for the evening prayer and I look around at my family gathered here.
“In the name of God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful,” we pray before delighting in the fine repast. Ramadan may fill your plate, but it really feeds your soul.
