Overview
We never truly leave our mother’s kitchen as long as we carry her flavors in our heart, says Monita Soni on Mother's Day
A Punjabi mother’s memories in a Georgia kitchen
The rain in Alpharetta, Georgia, didn’t smell like the rain in Punjab, but inside Pramila’s kitchen, time and space were starting to blur. It had been fifty years since she moved away, yet parts of her childhood remained etched in her muscle memory. A cool lake of fresh water trapped in the boulders of separation. I stood leaning against the doorframe, admiring her money plants and succulents, but the loss felt heavy: the loss of land, of mother’s home-cooked food, of sleeping by her side, and the soft comfort of her dimpled cheek.
Pramila worked the chakki ka aatta until it was soft and pliable, a skill passed down through her mother. She pressed a thumb into the center of the dough ball; it dented easily, a silent signal that it was ready. Beside her, the filling was a delicately flavored mix of boiled, mashed potatoes, a few finely chopped bright green chilies, and a big pinch of coriander and fennel powder. As she crushed the dried kasuri methi between her palms, the herbal aroma rose like a cloud. But my mind was miles away, anchored to the image of my own mother.
‘The genie of my culinary whims’
My mother was a child prodigy of the hearth. At an age when most girls were playing with dolls, she was at the helm of my Nanaji’s household, managing the kitchen with a wisdom far beyond her nine years. That early mastery blossomed into a lifelong magic; she was the genie of my culinary whims. Whatever I dreamed of, she manifested: creamy mutter paneer, kesar pista ice cream, and cakes glazed in chocolate ganache. Her larder was a treasure trove of sweet mango murabbas, badam barfi, pinnis, gulab jamuns, and airy mango soufflés.
“Is it almost ready?” I asked, watching her roll the dough.
Just weeks ago in Bombay (Mumbai), I had missed her physical presence, yet she reached me from the heavens. I would simply wish for something—Goan poi bread, ajwain roti, or amti with puran polis—and like a miracle, that exact dish would appear in my hotel room. It was as if she were walking the promenade at Taj Lands End with me, holding my hand as I sang to her.
“Almost,” Pramila replied, rolling the dough into a four-inch disc. She placed a generous portion of the potato stuffing in the center and deftly pleated the edges, bringing them together to seal the homemade stuffing inside.
As the first paratha hit the hot griddle, the sizzle and the scent of melting homemade ghee filled the room. Suddenly, the gray Alpharetta sky and the tall oak trees outside the window dissolved. In their place, the vibrant, neon-green mustard fields of our childhood home in the spring began to grow. The perfume of gardenias mingled with the fragrance of desi gulab and mogra. I could almost see the yellow mustard blooms swaying in the breeze. I felt the tall stalks of sugarcane tickle my arms as if I were running through them again in gay abandon; sweet sentinels standing tall, gold waves of young wheat stretching toward the horizon as far as my eyes could see.
A legacy for generations…
I remembered my mother feeding my children with that same devotion. Shaping mini parathas into birds and rabbits, making halwa and khichadi that looked as beautiful as they tasted…
Pramila flipped the paratha. It puffed up happily, the steam inside expanding like a held breath gently released. My anticipation heightened as I watched with a beaming face; my friend smeared the paratha with more ghee, pressing the edges until they were crisp and speckled with golden-brown spots.
“I made a green pepper pickle following a recipe on YouTube,” she said.
“Oh, this looks great,” I said. “We call this pickle tipore in Rajasthan. This was one pickle that was omnipresent in my mother-in-law’s kitchen,” Pramila told me. It came in handy with dal and chappattis. I carefully examined the anise and fenugreek coating the spicy, sautéed, lemon-infused green chilies on the table, alongside a bowl of cool, creamy raita.
Pramila’s raita was different from mine. It had cubed cucumber, tomatoes, and was spiked with dry ginger powder, roasted cumin, rock salt, and black pepper, tempered with mustard seeds and curry leaves. Delicious!
Pramila poured two mugs of strong, milky chai, and we sat down to our impromptu lunch. As I tore into the flaky, light paratha, the steam carried the scent of ginger and coriander. The very scent of home. We weren’t just two friends in a faraway land; we were daughters again, our knees abraded from climbing mango trees, our hearts full.
In that moment, leaning over the simple, wholesome aloo paratha, the gap of decades vanished. My mother and Pramila’s mother were there in the salt and in the spice. This impromptu lunch was devised by our mothers. It proved that you never truly leave your mother’s kitchen as long as you carry her flavors in your heart.
