biscoti

Amma's hands shaped biscotti exactly as her mother taught her in Chennai, decades before displacement scattered our family across continents. Each twist held memory—cardamom, almonds, the kitchen's humid warmth. My daughter watched, skeptical of tradition, until she tasted one. Her eyes widened. "Why don't we make these anymore?" she asked. I realized I'd almost let it disappear. Through PAYBO, I connected with other Tamil diaspora families preserving recipes, sharing stories. We weren't pretentious about authenticity; we were desperate to hold something real. These biscotti became bridges. Every bite tasted like belonging, like home reformed.