Food we return to when life becomes tough

In Bangladesh, comfort does not come on a silver spoon. It does not require coverage and buzz on the internet. It is more usually served and quietly eaten alongside a heap of hot rice, a ladle of dal, a spoonful of bhorta, maybe a fried chilli on the side.

These are the foods people reach for when life is unpredictable, draining, or depressing. They are simple foods, but with unusual emotional content.

In an era when restaurant culture and social media glorify elaborate presentations, the value placed on simple food in the country remains an unspoken topic.

It does not matter to many Bangladeshis whether comfort is culinary or not. It is in recognition, in well-known, palatable things that comfort and heal. Bhorta and dal do not represent social status; these are not even festival food. They are a part of everyday life, and it is exactly this reason that they survive.

Bhorta is a touch rather than a taste, a combination of mashed potato, eggplant, lentils, or dried fish, with mustard oil, onion, and chilli. It is formed by fingers and memorisation, and not by measures.

Every household does it differently, but they both purport to be authentic.

The food is indicative of an inherited instinct passed down since time immemorial and may have been taught not by teaching but by watching. In this regard, bhorta is more than nutrition; it carries identity.

Dal is equally situated in an emotional realm. Lentils quietly work in kitchens across the nation, serving both affluent and low-income families. Dal is affordable and sustains the symbol of stability.

It is a sign of normality when it is served with rice, a reminder that there is something to be trusted. Dal is important in consistency, unlike in celebratory meals, which are only eaten during weddings or festivals. It is present even when times are good or difficult, to maintain the mealtime routine.

To the students who do not live with family, this simplicity means a lot. Slim budgets can often limit cooking choices, especially on campuses where financial resources are limited to university dormitories and shared flats.

Variety is substituted by rice with dal or mashed vegetables, but this comes at a higher price than being cheap. Such meals bring the youths back to childhood kitchens and parental nurturing. They provide emotional continuity in unfamiliar surroundings, even when they are not prepared for them.

One can see the same trend among migrant workers and urban professionals who live alone, following extended, sporadic days; most lean towards simple meals rather than fancy cooking. Comfort here is not regarding novelty but consistency. The process of making or consuming familiar food has become earthy, a slight reassertion of control in the face of uncertainty.

The greatest seasoning is memory. The smell of mustard oil or hot lentils may evoke strong memories of home, family, and security. When a Bangladeshi family is sick, grieving, or experiencing stress, they tend to use fewer spices and revert to milder preparations. This is more of a cultural insight than a matter of functionality: familiarity aids healing. Food is one of the channels through which care is given and taken.

These values are reinforced by older generations that have grown up in scarcity, floods, and economic instability. Their food culture values sustainability and modesty, and that food must not entertain but feed. Families still have tales of rationing or deprivation in their kitchens, which influence the family outlook that deplores waste and glorifies a modest plenitude. To them, simple meals become historical.

An interesting characteristic of these comfort foods is their social 'cuteness.' Be it in rural houses or urban flats, dal and bhorta seem non-hierarchical. Although ways of life can differ, these dishes form a common culinary language known across the country. They oppose exclusivity and the belief that complexity or cost is valuable in itself.

The Bangladesh of the present day is, of course, changing. The habits are still being transformed by exposure to international food, the growing restaurant industry, and food delivery systems. The younger generations are experimenting with mixed menus and foreign cuisines.

However, even during experimentation, there are fallback options (e.g., traditional staples). Once the novelty is gone, most of them return to rice, dal, and mashed vegetables to regain balance. Basic tastes are slow to change because they are reinforced through repetition and habitual care.

To remove such dishes as something simple is to ignore their cultural value. They are stories about mothers educating daughters by example, about communal dinners in adversity, about ingenuity in the face of little to no food. They are generalised national experiences, strengths in natural disasters, migration, and social transformation, hidden away in daily dishes.

In a world increasingly drawn to spectacle, the emotional meaning of mundane food offers an alternative vision of food heritage. It is not always comfort that comes with indulgence. It can be the acknowledgement, the confirmation of flavours that are recognisable and permanent.

When life becomes heavy, Many Bangladeshis still manage to find comfort in the combination of rice, dal, and bhorta. Such meals do not announce themselves. They ask for little attention. Yet they offer something lasting, a remainder of continuity, belonging, and home.

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