Issue #28 - Goodbye 2023

If you’re here, thank you!

Note from Editor

Hello everyone!

It is fitting that this is our last issue of 2023 and the end of our first era (or season, if you’re a TV show lover like me) of We Have Food At Home. Perhaps more literary folk might say this is the end of Volume 1. I’m so proud that this newsletter that started from my love of food, talking about food, and writing about food to finding so many likeminded individuals who also wanted to share their stories. And of course, I am eternally grateful to YOU for reading. The past 6 months have brought us nearly thirty issues and contributors and a journey I could not have predicted when I started this little journal. So my year ends with gratitude towards you for being a part of this family, no matter how that has manifested. Next year, I will continue to look for contributions- so tell your friends! However, perhaps we will go down to once a month rather than every week just because it sometimes becomes harder with my schedule to manage. All that said, please continue supporting this lil guy!

It is so cool to browse through wehavefoodathome.substack.com and see the array and bounty of beautiful writing from writers all over the world in all the genres. I’m so proud of everything we’ve achieved so far.

I hope you have a very wonderful New Year and I will see you 2024 with some changes, new friends, and of course—food at home.

Padya

Purbasha Roy

Purbasha is a writer from Jharkhand India. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Channel SUSPECT Pulp Literary Review Acta Victoriana Strange Horizons Mascara Literary Review and elsewhere.

Petha Memories

Known as petha. The raw sounds of the fibrous 
body as it broke down. Kach-kach. Rice pumpkin
sweet has a fanbase greater than Michael Jackson.
When we went for the yearly autumnal ritual of 
touching neighborhood grandparents' feet. They
offered us a plateful of these sweetmeats. October
wind pleasant around us. My siblings enjoyed them
the way a tree branch holding a singing cuckoo does. 
I, unlike them felt no joy biting them. To avoid the 
awfulness of its taste I chew it fast. And gulped
down the way a whirlpool takes down all the
 floating things on the water surface. Generations
have grown to this off-white beauty. My tongue a
weird thing couldn't accept tastes' algorithm spread 
upon it. The tongue rolled back against this serving.
To not be disrespectful for the elders who loved us
like we were a lost summer they refound. I ate. If my 
tongue could be photographed, it would be an elegy.
For a window unwinding  into a dark cave mouth.