How Food Shaped My Cultural Identity: A Personal Journey

I never realized how deeply food was tied to my sense of self until I moved away from home. Growing up in a Moroccan household, the smell of freshly baked khobz and the spices from my mother’s tagine were constants. They weren’t just meals—they were stories, memories, emotions. I didn’t need a reason to appreciate them back then. They were simply... there. Now, thousands of miles away, I realize those dishes held together more than just ingredients—they held my identity.

The Taste of Childhood

Some of my earliest memories revolve around food. I remember watching my grandmother stir a steaming pot of harira during Ramadan, the kitchen windows fogging up from the heat. I can still hear the sizzling of sardines being fried in olive oil, the crackle as they turned golden brown. These weren’t just meals; they were the heartbeat of our family.

Food in our home was never rushed. Everything had its time and place. Couscous Fridays were sacred, and no one dared suggest takeout. As UNESCO recognizes couscous as part of humanity’s intangible cultural heritage, I can vouch that it’s more than a dish—it's a ritual. Every Friday, our kitchen was filled with laughter, steam, and storytelling. That’s how traditions survive: not through textbooks, but through taste and time.

Moving Away and Feeling the Void

When I first moved to France, I was excited to try new cuisines. But very quickly, I found myself craving the familiarity of cumin and coriander, the warm comfort of lentil soup, the aroma of za'atar. I attempted to recreate my mother’s recipes, often with comical results. I remember once forgetting to soak the chickpeas overnight. Let's just say my attempt at bessara turned into cement.

Yet with each mistake, I grew closer to home. Cooking became a bridge. It was no longer just about eating; it was about remembering, reconnecting, and re-rooting myself. The kitchen turned into my personal time machine, and every dish brought me closer to my roots.

Food as a Form of Resistance

In a world rushing towards homogenization, cooking traditional food feels almost revolutionary. I remember once a coworker asked me why I still cook “ethnic” food every night. My answer was simple: “Because it's who I am.” It wasn’t just about taste—it was about memory, about keeping alive the voice of my mother, the legacy of my grandmother, the heritage of a land I no longer walk but carry in my hands.

This resonates with many. For instance, culinary anthropologist Michael Twitty writes about how food can be a powerful act of cultural preservation. And I feel that. Every spoonful of traditional soup, every bite of handmade msemen is an act of remembering. Of saying: “I still belong.”

The Modern Fusion

That said, food culture evolves—and so do we. I’ve learned to blend what I know with what I’ve discovered. I now make a lamb tagine with a hint of balsamic vinegar. Blasphemy? Maybe. Delicious? Absolutely. It’s my heritage reinterpreted, not abandoned.

Thanks to platforms like Serious Eats and The Kitchn, I’ve experimented more in the last two years than I ever did before. But I never forget the origin. Fusion doesn’t mean forgetting; it means evolving while carrying the soul of the original.

Final Thoughts

If you asked me what food means to me now, I’d say: it’s memory, it’s resistance, it’s identity. It’s the way I say “thank you” to my ancestors and “hello” to my future children. It’s how I feel grounded in a world constantly changing.

So the next time you take a bite of something your grandmother used to make, pause. Feel it. Remember it. You’re not just eating—you’re connecting. And in a world hungry for belonging, food remains one of our last true forms of home.

Written by: Redouan Laghouibi
Founder of PurrCuddle