When I was a kid, I would often be the last one at the table, poking at some okra coated in a neon yellow sauce, prodding at a piece of chicken smothered in red and thinking to myself, "How am I going to get rid of this stuff?" Spicy food was my nemesis; dinner, the dreaded hour.

Most times, the bread was the one thing I could trust, as it was delightfully plain and colorless. I took great care in protecting that bread from all encroaching sauces. By the end of the meal, the plate looked like a battlefield — the chicken mostly gone and the vegetables pushed to the far corners, leaving trails of brightly colored liquids. And if that strategy didn't work, there was always the accidental fork drop, sending showers of spicy morsels to the dog (who had somehow grown a tolerance for curry).

The reason for all of this subterfuge was simple — spicy food and curries of all kinds are a staple in our household and have been for many years. My father is from Bangalore in southern India, and he has kept alive the traditional Indian cooking that his mother taught him when he was young.

But as much as he encouraged me to try new things, I resisted. "A hamburger with nothing on it" was my standard request. I didn't even like ketchup. And when at the age of 14, I traveled with my family to India, I simply refused to accept the food of my father's culture. My mother, who is from the U.S., and was also going through culture shock, was understanding. To my father I was an embarrassment.

But he didn't give up on me. He made me spread my wings and try new things, part of the reason he enrolled me in the University of Central Florida two hours away from home. Soon the time came when I didn't ask him to return to get me on weekends. Forced to feed myself, I discovered a new hobby: cooking.

My roommate Samantha and I bonded over a pot of chili cooked in the dorm room (as per my dad's instructions over the phone). We often stayed up late, drinking cheap wine coolers, watching the Food Channel and planning menus. Pretty soon we were hosting dinner parties, experimenting with fresh herbs and cooking with lots and lots of garlic — raw, roasted and always fresh. On my trips home to see my family, I would share new cooking techniques that I'd picked up from Sam or seen on TV.

Finally, my dad and I could share some common ground.

Now that I've transferred to USF and am living back at home, we have time to cook together. We've integrated Top Chef techniques into our own cooking, grinding whole spices like my grandmother did in India. We've expanded our repertoire of ingredients to include ginger, chili and sesame oils.

The many ethnic grocery stores in Tampa have spawned several new dishes in our household. But when it comes to shopping for Indian foods, the only place to go is Patel Brothers on Fowler Avenue by USF — with over 35 stores, the largest Indian grocery store chain in the states.

When my father and I shop there together, he stocks up on his favorite Malabar mixture and Mother's Mango Thokku (a spicy mango pickle), and we look for the spices we use most — cayenne pepper, turmeric, coriander, cumin, cardamom.

An afternoon in the kitchen usually follows. My dad's cooking is much like a ballet: dashes of spice, squeeze of lemon, spoonful of yogurt, splash of Sriracha, a little more ginger, needs more acid, in goes another tomato. Each dish is an intricate mixture that can never be exactly duplicated, and each requires a good deal of prep work. My mom and I are the sous chefs; my dad's the head chef; the dogs are the cleanup crew.

But now that I know my way around a kitchen, cooking with my father can become a battle of wills.

After he introduced me to tamarind paste, I couldn't get enough of it; now I sneak extra tablespoons of the tangy concentrate into the pot while he's not looking. One time I added chocolate to a pot of chili I found simmering on the stove. "Keep your grubby paws out of my cooking," he told me.

And much to my dad's chagrin, I always prepare large quantities of garlic.

"It cleans the blood," I say.

"You need to learn to tone it down," he says.

What's ironic, of course, is that I used to wish he would tone down his cooking.

But even after he scolds me, he usually follows up with a spoonful of something good for me to try. And since Indian food is best cooked low and slow so that all the spices have time to release their full flavor, we have plenty of time together to discuss school and what I will do once I leave home for the second time.

I've come to find that my dad has much more than culinary wisdom to offer. He's a tough critic, but has taught me much about how the world works. As the curry reduces and thickens, I chew on his advice and think about the life he has made for himself over here. And then I quickly add a spoonful of tamarind paste to the pot while he's not looking.

Priya Jaishanker is a Creative Loafing intern and a USF senior majoring in telecommunications.

This article appears in Dec 2-8, 2010.