The Psychology of Craving: Why We Keep Going Back to Our Childhood Foods

It starts small. Maybe with the smell of ghee warming gently in a pan, or the familiar cling of a steel ladle tapping against a vessel. Suddenly, you’re not in your adult kitchen anymore. You’re six—maybe eight. You’re standing barefoot on cool mosaic tiles, watching your mother crush garlic with the side of a knife. Or waiting by the door as your grandfather returns from the market, holding a paper bag of golden-brown samosas for the evening snack.

One whiff, one bite—and just like that, you’re home. Not in geography, but in feeling.

We often use the term comfort food, but honestly, the phrase barely scratches the surface. Why do we keep reaching for the same childhood snacks and those oddly specific combinations—Maggi with ketchup, bread soaked in milk, rice with sugar and banana—long after we’ve grown up and outgrown almost everything else? What is it about those textures, those smells, that cling to us more than old report cards and photo albums ever could?

The answer, as it turns out, lies somewhere between the brain and the heart.

Psychologists have found that our food preferences are closely tied to early emotional experiences. The brain doesn’t just store sensory information—like taste, smell, or sound—on its own. It archives them along with emotions. So when you bite into something familiar from your childhood, you’re not just remembering a flavour. You’re remembering how you felt when you first tasted it—safe, loved, protected.

Cravings, then, are rarely about hunger. They’re about belonging.

When life feels uncertain, when the present feels too heavy, we go back to what felt like home. A plate of dal-chawal with a spoon of mango pickle made by your mother isn’t just dinner. It’s reassurance. It’s her way of saying, “You’ll be okay.” A two-rupee toffee from the local kirana shop isn’t just sugar—it’s the memory of your grandfather slipping you five rupees and smiling with a wink.

There’s something else too—something deeper. Childhood was probably the last time we ate without guilt. Without rules. Without needing to earn our meals. We weren’t checking calories. We weren’t decoding the ingredient list on a packet. We weren’t trying to eat ‘clean’. We ate by instinct. We ate when we were hungry, we stopped when we were full. We didn’t feel shame for wanting more.

Maybe that’s why we crave those meals so fiercely. We’re not just missing the food. We’re missing who we were when we ate it.

In my own life, the pull of childhood food feels almost sacred. When I’m sad, when life feels like too much, I find myself standing in the kitchen making aate ka halwa. The kind my mother used to make—quietly, without a word—on the days I came home teary-eyed or with red marks on my exam sheet.

It was never just about the sweetness. It was her way of saying, I see you. You’re still loved. Nothing has changed.

Even now, it never tastes exactly like hers. But it doesn’t have to. The smell of roasted flour and ghee is enough. It wraps around me like a blanket of memory. It slows my breath. It tells me I’m okay.

Food psychologist Susan Whitbourne once said, “Eating familiar foods can be like taking a sensory journey through your life history.” And she’s right. Every dish carries echoes. Even the seemingly mundane ones. A half-burnt roti slathered with ghee. A bowl of curd with jaggery. A piece of papad roasted on the flame and curled into a cone. They all hold stories.

And while recipes pass from one generation to another, so does their emotional weight. Maybe that’s why we defend our childhood versions so fiercely. It’s not just “my mom’s halwa is the best”—it’s this is the version of love I was raised on.

There’s something quietly radical in this return to childhood food. Reclaiming those meals is an act of self-kindness. A reminder that nourishment doesn’t have to be trendy, filtered, or shared on Instagram. Sometimes, it’s as simple as a bowl of plain rice with a spoonful of ghee—eaten alone, without conversation or performance.

In a world obsessed with aesthetics and avocado toast, there’s something brave about going back to basics. To the foods that shaped us, held us, and carried us through growing pains. These cravings? They’re not shallow. They’re anchors. Memory-markers. Emotional GPS systems bringing us home.

Because maybe, just maybe, what we’re hungry for isn’t the food at all.

Maybe it’s the feeling of being seen. Of being held. Of being remembered by something warm and familiar.

So the next time you find yourself longing for that strange, sweet, humble dish from your past—don’t brush it off. Lean into it. Make it. Sit with it. Let it take you back.

You might just find that what you were really hungry for… was home.