The secret love language of yogurt containers

Plain and practical, the plastic yogurt container is an everyday object you might toss into the recycling bin without a second thought. But in my family — and so many others — it holds something special: stories of love, caring and tradition. 

Given my Pakistani, Afghan and Persian background, yogurt is as much a part of my family's daily sustenance as rice or bread. We eat it plain, with a sprinkling of sugar (my son's favourite), stirred into curries and khoreshts, or alongside a humble plate of dal chawal. 

In fact, we go through so much yogurt that the empty tubs pile up. But my husband knows that if there's a yogurt container in the sink, it's not meant for the recycling bin — it needs to be washed and stacked in the pantry alongside the others.

Because in my world, yogurt containers take on a life of their own.

More than leftovers

Among my family and friends, no meal is complete until someone has packed leftovers for you to take home.

Aunty Shelly, my mother's best friend and my aunt by proxy, never lets me leave her house without a container. One day, it's the crispy, golden samosas she served with chai; another, the lemon drop cookies she's made for me since I was a teenager. 

At home, yogurt containers carry more than just leftovers — sometimes, it's about finding ways to show you care. When I'm preparing for a trip, I'll fill one with chana masala for my husband and pop it in the fridge. Later, when he's back late from work, he'll lazily reach for yogurt to pair with fruit only to discover the container holds a homemade meal instead — a small surprise to remind him I'm thinking of him.

Practicality meets sentimentality

Why yogurt containers? They're inexpensive and there's no need to worry about them being returned — unlike the pristine Tupperware of my childhood, carefully guarded by my mom and aunties. Plus, they're just the right size: big enough to hold a portion of leftover holiday trifle or chicken curry, but small enough to tuck into the fridge or carry home after dinner.

And though they're not meant for long-term storage, and their lids never fit quite right after coming out of the dishwasher, these mismatched, well-loved vessels are symbols of care and kindness.

Because if you've ever left my mom's house with a yogurt container of her ginger chicken and cumin-scented basmati rice, it's not just her food you're taking away. What she's really giving you is a message: "I'll be thinking of you, even after you leave."

A culture of giving

The ritual of sending family members home with leftovers is rooted in traditions of generosity. In my culture, no guest leaves empty-handed — it's as ingrained as the act of preparing the meal itself. 

I think of my friend Bahareh and her mom, Aunty Mehrnaz, who know how much I love tahdig. Every time I visit them for dinner, they send me home with a serving of that prized saffron-crusted rice. Even if there's only a small amount left, they always share it — a selfless act of love and graciousness. Aunty Mehrnaz makes sure to add the crackly golden layer right before popping the lid on, so it doesn't go soggy before I eat it. It also makes the joy of the meal last a little longer. 

Later, I'll reuse that same container when a friend can't make it to biryani night. I'll fill it with layers of my spiced chicken and rice, and drop it off on my friend's porch the next day. And so the cycle of unspoken reciprocity continues. 

Vessels of love

During the holidays, I go to Washington, D.C., where my sisters and I gather around the table at my father's home. We order a selection of dishes from my favourite Persian restaurant in the area: skewers of saffron chicken barbecued to perfection, with perfectly charred tomatoes and fragrant basmati. We laugh and share stories as we eat.

After we say our goodbyes and I begin driving home, the night feels heavy with the sadness of parting. But there's also some comfort tucked beside me: a yogurt container filled with leftovers from the meal we shared as a family. It's more than just lunch the next day; it's a way to keep the celebration from the previous evening alive. 

My mother doesn't cook anymore, but when she did, she made sure to press a container of something sweet or savoury into every guest's hand, something they could enjoy the next day. Now, when I visit, I bring the tradition full circle by sending her friends home with treats. 

At a tea party I hosted on her behalf, I filled a yogurt tub with leftover mast-o-khiar for Aunty Shelly and told her to enjoy it the next day. It was my turn to take care of my aunty, just as she'd always taken care of me.

To anyone else, it's just a yogurt container. But to me, it's a love letter — a reminder of my family's generosity, the joy of shared meals and the little ways we care for each other. The containers aren't fancy, but they don't need to be. They're not meant to be kept. They're made for giving.