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 didnt 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 didnt 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 fathers 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 didnt 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 didnt ask him to return to get me on weekends. Forced to feed myself, I discovered a new hobby: cooking.

This article appears in Dec 2-8, 2010.