Aditi (Cleveland, Ohio)

My fingers hesitated over the mustard seeds, their tiny black spheres holding more power than their size suggested. “Thālippu takes practice,” Amma said, her sari pallu tucked firmly at her waist, as she expertly tossed the seeds into shimmering gingelly oil. They crackled and popped, releasing an earthy aroma that filled the kitchen. I watched, mesmerized, as she added a cascade of curry leaves, dried red chilies, and asafoetida. This was sambar–our sambar, with its tangy tamarind base and soft dal. Amma’s hands guided mine, her gold bangles clinking softly as I stirred the bubbling pot. The rhythm of her Tamil instructions—“konjam kaathu podu, konjam suda vaa”—became a melody I hoped to carry forever.