Nostalgia on a Plate: Why We Crave Foods from Our Childhood
My wife was chopping vegetables when she stopped, knife mid-air, and said:
“I miss my mother’s Khola Pitha.”
She wasn’t looking at me. She was staring at the cutting board, but I could tell she was somewhere else—back in Feni, Bangladesh, on a morning when her mother made fresh Khola Pitha, thin and delicate, served warm with a sprinkle of sugar or a smear of butter.
“I miss Roj Bukhari,” she added quietly. “The way she made it on random Fridays. And Polao & Korma during Eid.”
We’re in Finland now, thousands of miles from Bangladesh. She can make these dishes herself—she’s a better cook than her mother ever was, honestly—but it’s not the same.
Because she’s not craving the food. She’s craving the memory.
The Foods I Can’t Forget
I have my own list.
Shutki Bhuna—dried fish cooked with onions, garlic, green chilies, and spices until it’s intensely savory and just a little bit funky. My mother made it with such precision that every bite was a balance of heat, salt, and umami.
Fish Curry with Tomato—not the fancy restaurant kind, but the version my mother made on weekday afternoons: fresh river fish, ripe tomatoes, mustard oil, turmeric, and enough chili to make your eyes water. Served over white rice, with the oil pooling at the edges.
I haven’t had either of these dishes in years. I could make them—I have the recipes, the ingredients are available—but when I try, they taste close but not right.
Because I’m not just tasting fish and spices. I’m tasting childhood, safety, and home.
And no matter how well I cook, I can’t replicate that.
Why Food Memories Are So Powerful
There’s a reason why certain foods trigger such intense nostalgia. It’s not just sentimentality—it’s neuroscience.
The Hippocampus, Amygdala, and Olfactory Bulb: A Perfect Storm
When you eat a food from your childhood, three parts of your brain light up:
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The Hippocampus (memory storage): This is where autobiographical memories live—where you were, who you were with, how you felt.
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The Amygdala (emotion processing): This attaches emotional significance to memories. It’s why a taste can make you feel safe, loved, or homesick.
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The Olfactory Bulb (smell processing): Smell is the only sense directly wired to the hippocampus and amygdala. It bypasses the thalamus (the brain’s “relay station”) and goes straight to memory and emotion centers.
This is why smell and taste trigger memories more powerfully than sight or sound.
A 2012 study published in Chemical Senses found that odor-evoked memories are:
- More emotional than memories triggered by other senses
- More vivid and specific
- More likely to involve childhood experiences
When my wife smells something close to Khola Pitha—freshly cooked rice flour, warm dough—it doesn’t just remind her of her mother. It transports her.
The Proust Effect: Taste as a Time Machine
In 1913, French novelist Marcel Proust described eating a madeleine cookie dipped in tea and being suddenly overwhelmed by memories of his childhood. This phenomenon—where a taste or smell triggers vivid, emotional memories—is now called the Proust Effect.
Neuroscientists have studied this extensively.
A 2013 study in Hippocampus used fMRI scans to show that odor-evoked memories activate the amygdala and hippocampus more strongly than memories triggered by words or images.
In other words: Tasting your mother’s Polao doesn’t just make you remember Eid. It makes you feel Eid.
The warmth of the house. The sound of family talking. The safety of being a child with nothing to worry about except whether you’ll get a second serving.
That’s not just memory—it’s emotional time travel.
Why We Can’t Recreate Childhood Foods (Even When We Try)
My wife is an excellent cook. She’s made Roj Bukhari dozens of times. It’s delicious.
But it’s not her mother’s.
Why?
1. Taste Changes Over Time
Our taste buds are shaped by what we eat as children. A 2014 study in Flavour found that early food experiences create flavor templates—our brains “learn” what foods should taste like between ages 2-10.
When my wife’s mother made Roj Bukhari, my wife was 8 years old. Her palate was different. The rice tasted sweeter. The spices were more intense.
Now, as an adult, her taste buds have changed. Even if she uses the exact same recipe, it won’t taste the same because she’s not the same.
2. Context Shapes Flavor
A 2015 study in Food Quality and Preference found that context massively affects how we perceive taste.
The same dish tastes different when eaten:
- At your mother’s table vs. your own kitchen
- As a child vs. as an adult
- In Bangladesh vs. Finland
When I eat Shutki Bhuna now, I’m eating it in a quiet apartment in Finland with my wife and cat. It’s good.
But when I ate it as a child, I was eating it in a noisy house in Bangladesh, with my siblings arguing over who got the biggest piece of fish, and my mother laughing at us.
The food was embedded in a context I can’t recreate.
3. Memory Idealizes Flavor
Here’s the hard truth: the food from our childhood probably wasn’t as good as we remember.
A 2016 study in Memory found that nostalgia enhances positive memories and suppresses negative ones. We remember the best bites, the perfect days, the moments when everything was right.
My mother’s Fish Curry with Tomato was probably sometimes too salty, sometimes overcooked. But I don’t remember those times. I remember the perfect version—the one that tasted like love and home.
That’s the version I crave.
And no recipe can compete with an idealized memory.
The Neuroscience of Comfort and Longing
Why do we crave these foods, even when we know they can’t be the same?
1. Food = Safety and Care
When we’re children, being fed is an act of love. Our caregivers prepare food, and we eat it, and we feel safe.
A 2018 study in Appetite found that comfort foods are associated with caregiving relationships. We don’t just crave the taste—we crave the feeling of being cared for.
When my wife craves her mother’s Khola Pitha, she’s craving the mornings when she woke up to the smell of fresh rice cakes and knew her mother had been up early, making something special just for her.
That’s not hunger. That’s longing for care.
2. Food = Identity and Belonging
Food is cultural identity. When my wife eats Polao & Korma, she’s not just eating rice and meat—she’s participating in a tradition that connects her to her family, her community, her heritage.
A 2017 study in Frontiers in Psychology found that eating traditional foods strengthens cultural identity and reduces feelings of displacement.
We’re immigrants in Finland. We love it here. But sometimes, eating Shutki Bhuna reminds me that I’m Bangladeshi, that I come from somewhere with a history and a culture that shaped me.
Food is a way of staying connected to who we were and where we came from.
3. Food = Emotional Regulation
When my wife is stressed or homesick, she doesn’t make elaborate dinners. She makes soupy noodles—a simple, comforting dish that requires minimal effort and tastes like safety.
This isn’t just anecdotal. A 2011 study in Psychological Science found that comfort foods reduce loneliness and increase feelings of social connection, even when eaten alone.
The brain associates these foods with positive social experiences, so eating them triggers the same neurochemical response as being with loved ones.
When I eat Fish Curry with Tomato, my brain releases serotonin and dopamine—the same chemicals associated with social bonding.
I’m not with my mother. But my brain feels like I am.
What We’re Really Craving
Here’s what I’ve realized:
We’re not craving food. We’re craving:
- The feeling of being a child again, when the world was smaller and safer.
- The people who made the food—their care, their presence, their love.
- The context—the house, the weather, the conversations, the rituals.
- A version of ourselves that no longer exists—younger, less complicated, more certain of where we belonged.
When my wife says, “I miss my mother’s Roj Bukhari,” what she means is:
I miss being in my mother’s kitchen on a Friday afternoon, with nothing to do except wait for the rice to cook and know that I was loved.
When I say, “I miss Shutki Bhuna,” what I mean is:
I miss sitting at my mother’s table with my siblings, arguing over fish, feeling like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
The food is just the vessel for the memory.
Living in Finland, Missing Bangladesh
We’ve been in Finland for years now. We love it here—the quiet, the lakes, the long summer evenings, the way snow muffles the world in winter.
But sometimes, on a gray afternoon when the rain won’t stop and the apartment feels too quiet, my wife will say:
“I wish I could have Khola Pitha. The way my mother made it.”
And I get it.
Because I’ll be cooking dinner and think: I wish I had fresh river fish. I wish I could make curry the way my mother did.
We’re not unhappy. We’re not lonely.
But we’re homesick for a time and place we can’t return to.
The Science of Why Nostalgia Hurts (And Heals)
Nostalgia is bittersweet.
On one hand, it makes us feel connected to our past, our loved ones, our identity. Research shows (Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin, 2008) that nostalgia increases feelings of social connectedness, self-esteem, and meaning in life.
On the other hand, it reminds us of what we’ve lost—time, people, places we can never get back.
A 2013 study in Emotion found that nostalgia activates both reward and loss networks in the brain—it feels good and it hurts.
That’s why my wife can smile when she talks about Polao & Korma during Eid and also look so sad.
Because she’s remembering something beautiful that she can’t have anymore.
How We Cope: Cooking, Sharing, Adapting
We can’t recreate the past. But we can honor it.
1. We Cook the Dishes Anyway
My wife makes Roj Bukhari even though it’s not her mother’s. I make Shutki Bhuna even though it’s not my mother’s.
It doesn’t taste the same. But it tastes close. And sometimes, close is enough.
2. We Share the Stories
When we cook these dishes, we tell each other stories.
“My mother used to make this on Fridays after Jummah prayer.”
“My mother would fry the fish first, then add the tomatoes slowly.”
The stories keep the memories alive. And in telling them, we keep our mothers alive—not physically, but in the way they shaped us.
3. We Adapt
We live in Finland now. We’ve learned to love Finnish food—rye bread, salmon soup, karjalanpiirakka (Karelian pasties).
And maybe, one day, our children (if we have them) will crave these foods the way we crave Khola Pitha and Shutki Bhuna.
Because nostalgia isn’t about the food itself. It’s about love, care, and belonging.
And those things can be found anywhere.
The Verdict: Why Childhood Foods Are Embedded in Our Brains
After researching the neuroscience, psychology, and lived experience of food nostalgia, here’s what I believe:
- Food memories are powerful because they’re tied to emotion, identity, and care.
- We can’t recreate childhood foods because we’re trying to recreate childhood—and that’s impossible.
- Nostalgia is bittersweet, but it serves a purpose: it reminds us who we are and where we came from.
- Cooking and eating traditional foods helps us stay connected to our roots, even when we’re far from home.
When my wife misses Khola Pitha, I make her tea and sit with her.
When I miss Shutki Bhuna, she tells me stories about her own childhood meals.
We can’t go back. But we can carry the past with us, one meal at a time.
A Recipe for Nostalgia (That Isn’t a Recipe)
If you’re reading this and missing a food from your childhood, here’s what I recommend:
- Make it. Even if it’s not perfect. Even if it doesn’t taste the same. The act of cooking it honors the memory.
- Share the story. Tell someone why this food matters. What it reminds you of. Who made it for you.
- Let it be bittersweet. You don’t have to choose between joy and sadness. Nostalgia is both.
- Create new food memories. Cook for the people you love. One day, they’ll crave your version of the dish.
Because the foods we crave aren’t really about taste.
They’re about love, encoded in flavor and embedded in memory.
And that’s the most powerful recipe of all.