On a typical summer morning, my grandparents and I wake up early and sneak downstairs to make puris (deep-fried, puffed, round pieces of bread). Usually, my body feels extremely tired but my eyes are wide with excitement. From deep inside a shelf, we take out the heavy puri press made of cool metal. My grandma, Jothi, had bought the press years ago from a store in India. We roll the dough into circular shapes. Mine always come out crooked but that’s what the puri press is used for, to make the dough as perfectly round as possible. Normally I’m wondering how on earth my grandfather is able to push that heavy metal plate down with his bare hands. Then, the minute the stove turns on and my grandmother works her cooking magic, the house starts to smell delicious. The mouth-watering aroma brings a swirl of memories that takes my mind back to India. My grandmother told me, “I remember my mom making puris. She was an excellent cook. We kept leftovers in vessels and my siblings and I would fight for the last bits of puri.” Every time I make these delicacies, I think about how my parents, grandparents and all of my relatives ate these as children. Although I am oceans away from the country my parents and grandparents grew up in, being able to cook these puris deeply connects me to my Indian culture and heritage. 

Relationship:  Child of im/migrant Child of im/migrant