carbonara

Grandmother's kitchen smelled of jasmine and ghee when she taught me carbonara. An Italian dish, yes, but her hands moved like they were stirring sambar, blending worlds with quiet certainty. Kannadasan's poems floated through my mind as she worked—how exile transforms us, makes us create bridges between memories. The diaspora taught her this: survival tastes like innovation. She earned her peace through cooking, through small rebellions of flavor. My children watched, learning that home isn't one place but every kitchen where love gets stirred in. Tonight, we gather around her table, honoring both what we've lost and what we've become.