<p>In the mid-1990s I travelled to Canada for the first time. In addition to warm clothing, I packed a starter kit for an Indian kitchen. Given the baggage allowance constraints, and since these are universal pantry staples, sugar and salt were excluded.</p>.<p>Following two initial weeks in the care of a wonderful American couple, a rental was arranged. Time to start my own kitchen fires burning. My first visit to the local Safeway was an eye-opening experience. Sprawled across an area the size of an American football field, the array of merchandise was mind-boggling. In India, my modest world of grocery retail boasted owner-operated kirana shops and friendly neighbourhood wet markets. Shopping was swift (often home-delivered) and simple. Here, I needed a category-coded shopping list and a navigation map if I were to even reach the right aisle.</p>.<p>Meandering through the massive store, I finally found myself in the baking, condiments and spices section. Without too much difficulty, I located a pack of Rogers fine granulated white sugar. Salt proved more elusive. The shelves carried a bewildering selection of choices – smoked salt, seasoning salt, pickling salt, Italian herb-flavoured salt, Himalayan pink salt, Hawaiian red salt, Celtic Sea salt, fleur de sel... Where was a simple pack of white table salt? Iodised or not. As a beginner home cook, my repertoire was limited. Gourmet ingredients were unknown and unaffordable. I could not be rescued by the Google search engine, which was still two years away from launch, or Wi-Fi-powered smartphones, which lay even further in the future. But how could I begin cooking without this humble, indispensable ingredient?</p>.This carrot is a stick.<p>I finally selected a beautifully packaged 200 gm sprinkler pack of Celtic sea salt. It cost a fortune. I had no way of knowing how it would taste. But on one side of its curved cylindrical surface was printed an elegant black and white sketch and description that immediately drew my attention. The Dandi March. The familiar image of Mahatma Gandhi's purposeful stride and accompanying story of satyagraha gave comfort as I grappled with overchoice anxiety.</p>.<p>Recounting my adventures to our solicitous host, I happily discovered that my stress was not misplaced. Apparently, a worker's strike had disrupted the salt supply chain. This was not a case of an inexperienced immigrant learning the ropes of living abroad. There was a genuine scarcity of simple table salt. The idea that in this rich and developed country, people could face a shortage of something as ubiquitous as salt was both ironic and consoling. It somehow helped bridge the vast gap in geography and lifestyle that I was experiencing and made Canada feel more familiar, less foreign. Not that I had ever experienced a shortage of salt in India.</p>.<p>I remember holding on to the attractive paper tube container for many years afterwards. To salt away this droll memory. </p><p><em>Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.</em></p>
<p>In the mid-1990s I travelled to Canada for the first time. In addition to warm clothing, I packed a starter kit for an Indian kitchen. Given the baggage allowance constraints, and since these are universal pantry staples, sugar and salt were excluded.</p>.<p>Following two initial weeks in the care of a wonderful American couple, a rental was arranged. Time to start my own kitchen fires burning. My first visit to the local Safeway was an eye-opening experience. Sprawled across an area the size of an American football field, the array of merchandise was mind-boggling. In India, my modest world of grocery retail boasted owner-operated kirana shops and friendly neighbourhood wet markets. Shopping was swift (often home-delivered) and simple. Here, I needed a category-coded shopping list and a navigation map if I were to even reach the right aisle.</p>.<p>Meandering through the massive store, I finally found myself in the baking, condiments and spices section. Without too much difficulty, I located a pack of Rogers fine granulated white sugar. Salt proved more elusive. The shelves carried a bewildering selection of choices – smoked salt, seasoning salt, pickling salt, Italian herb-flavoured salt, Himalayan pink salt, Hawaiian red salt, Celtic Sea salt, fleur de sel... Where was a simple pack of white table salt? Iodised or not. As a beginner home cook, my repertoire was limited. Gourmet ingredients were unknown and unaffordable. I could not be rescued by the Google search engine, which was still two years away from launch, or Wi-Fi-powered smartphones, which lay even further in the future. But how could I begin cooking without this humble, indispensable ingredient?</p>.This carrot is a stick.<p>I finally selected a beautifully packaged 200 gm sprinkler pack of Celtic sea salt. It cost a fortune. I had no way of knowing how it would taste. But on one side of its curved cylindrical surface was printed an elegant black and white sketch and description that immediately drew my attention. The Dandi March. The familiar image of Mahatma Gandhi's purposeful stride and accompanying story of satyagraha gave comfort as I grappled with overchoice anxiety.</p>.<p>Recounting my adventures to our solicitous host, I happily discovered that my stress was not misplaced. Apparently, a worker's strike had disrupted the salt supply chain. This was not a case of an inexperienced immigrant learning the ropes of living abroad. There was a genuine scarcity of simple table salt. The idea that in this rich and developed country, people could face a shortage of something as ubiquitous as salt was both ironic and consoling. It somehow helped bridge the vast gap in geography and lifestyle that I was experiencing and made Canada feel more familiar, less foreign. Not that I had ever experienced a shortage of salt in India.</p>.<p>I remember holding on to the attractive paper tube container for many years afterwards. To salt away this droll memory. </p><p><em>Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.</em></p>
