Home has never been a fixed point for me. It has shifted, stretched, and redefined itself over the years. Spain. India. Places in between. I have learnt to live comfortably with that ambiguity, but if there is one place where the idea of home has always felt certain, it is on a plate.
I was born in Madrid. As a child, we moved to Hong Kong, and after a brief time there, my parents and I moved to Mumbai, where we stayed for several years. Each place added its own layer to who I am, but food was the constant. It followed me quietly, adapting without resistance, grounding me when everything else felt new.
As a kid, my mornings were never about chai. In Spain, it was Cola Cao. In India, it was Bournvita. Sweet, familiar, comforting. The kind of drinks that instantly take you back to childhood kitchens, no matter how many years have passed. Chai belonged to my parents. Strong, spiced, serious. I watched it from the sidelines while holding onto my own rituals. Every now and then, my mum would make me a South Indian–style coffee, rich and intense, but those moments were rare, almost ceremonial.
Then there were the foods that anchored me to Madrid. Tortilla de patatas, always con cebolla, claro! Croquetas, hot and comforting. Patatas bravas with just enough heat to demand attention. Gambas al ajillo, still sizzling when they hit the table, garlic and oil doing most of the talking. And the occasional bocata de calamares, a favourite of both my mum and me, eaten without fuss, always satisfying.
What I realise now is that food has never just been about eating for me. It has been a way of remembering without trying. A way of holding onto places, people, and versions of myself that no longer exist in the same way. Each dish carries a moment. A kitchen. A voice calling me to the table. A particular stage of life.
My tastes have grown, shifted, blended. Some mornings I crave a pincho de tortilla or pan con tomate. Other days, it is poha, upma, or a koki that feels right. Sometimes I mix worlds without thinking, pairing a butter chicken curry with a barra de pan, because it makes sense to me, even if it does not follow any rules. Chinese, Japanese, Thai food… yum yum and yummm!
Maybe that is why food feels like home. Not because it belongs to one place, but because it belongs to all of them. It moves with me. It adapts. It remembers.
Maybe home is not something you find on a map. Maybe it is something you taste. Something that lingers quietly, long after the plate is empty.
— Raulito
Rolly Time 
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