The smell of the plate reached me before the plate itself had the chance to. A wave of steam rose from cooked rice, carrying the warm scent of spices, sizzling beef, goat meat, or chicken, creating a comforting scent that almost translates to a hug. Before I even walk into the kitchen, I already know what’s waiting for me — a large shared plate of bariis, hilib (rice and meat), and sliced bananas that have shaped my idea of home and community. Similarly, when I enter a Somali restaurant, I already know what I’m ordering and who I’m having it with, family.
Growing up in a Somali household, meals were never simply meals. They were moments of togetherness that brought everyone to the table. They provided times for everyone to pause and gather around one another to eat side by side. Whether it was a normal school night or a special occasion, when this dish was served, the practice remained the same. No one eats alone, in different rooms, or has their own bowl — it’s communal. It’s not a dish eaten alone, but one that creates a bond among those who share it.
The plate, which always consists of some variety of meat, rice, and bananas, is so large, it almost feels criminal not to share it, as if the food loses part of its meaning, taste, and essence when it doesn’t have hands reaching to get their own mouthful. Eating this dish, and rice in general, with your hands is also a cultural practice some might say makes the food taste even better (some people, being my mom), but it’s the practice of reaching for and feeling the food with your fingers that connects you with what you’re eating. This connection with food holds true, as seen with other African and South Asian cultures that prioritize eating with their hands rather than with a utensil.
This dish is not connected to a specific name or event, since it doesn’t have to be. It’s part of the routine of everyday life. A plate shared by many becomes a collective experience rather than an individual one. To me, it reflects a culture rooted in “us” and “we” rather than “I” and “me,” where family and community are often prioritized over individual wants. When my mom was growing up, my grandfather was very strict about everyone eating together because it bonds and keeps you together. You learned to spark a conversation and care about the person next to you.
Growing up, I found it difficult to identify why those meals felt safe and grounding to me. Looking back, I’ve come to understand that it was the consistent reminder that there was always a place where everyone could come together and belong. Everyone was included rather than left out. Similarly, the banana on the plate always seems to confuse people unfamiliar with Somali food since it’s a mix of sweet fruit paired with savoury rice. However, to me, it’s what pulled the dish together. The sweetness of the fruit balanced the spices found in the rice and meat. The flavours work in tandem rather than alone, existing and working better together.
As I’ve gotten older and spent more time in environments that prioritize individualism, separate lives, and different schedules, I’ve come to appreciate this dish more and the community it sparks. As years pass, it continues to remind me to be present, mindful, and appreciative of the connection formed with the people around me.
A fragrant plate of rice, meat, and bananas has been able to shape my understanding of home and spark a connection with not only the food but the people I share it with. This dish has been able to show me that togetherness can be found in the most unlikely of places. Sometimes it’s found in steamed rice, sizzling meat, and eaten with your hands and those you love. To me, this is what togetherness tastes like.