After Atha Garu finishes preparing breakfast, serving it and cleaning up, I watch her begin her next task, preparing lunch. She sits at a little table in her small humid kitchen, with an old chopping block and knife, rubbing her top lip against her bottom lip as she sits silently in her salvar kameez cutting vegetables. Sometimes I help. Sometimes she lets me chop. Her way is specific and practiced though, to include me makes it tedious.

“Cut the onion Liss,” I’m told as I’m handed a small old worn knife and directed to the curry stained counter.

The astringent vapor of freshly cut onion makes my eyes tear, knowing that initial assault on my eyes cannot rival the sweet taste that lingers once a properly spiced, fried onion hits my mouth. My onion pieces are either too big or too small. It’s just a matter of time before Atha Garu swivels her head from side to side saying, “Ohhh Liss…smaller Liss.”

Chopped onion, grated ginger, diced tomato and soaked chana are placed in bowls. Atha Garu preps the small galley kitchen next, getting out a pot, pressure cooker, rice steamer, and flat spoons that resemble a miniature metal pizza peel. She fills the rice cooker with twice as much water as rice, a pinch of salt, and turns it on.

The portable gas cylinder resting under our cooking vessels is set to high and lit with a match. The pot and pressure cooker are oiled. Water and soaked chana is poured into the pressure cooker first, the lid fastened. Those chana bits aren’t anything special yet, but on a medium flame, in twenty minutes and three whistles of the toggle, they will be ready for gravy. The pressure cooker is worn and dented, not one of the new non-stick fancy ones. From the years of use, I swear the seasoning from curries past have seeped into the steel body somehow, adding character to our current dish. Only an intrepid chef would use a pressure cooker this old.

The weighted toggle makes me nervous. It could pop off any time like a wild metal champagne cork, flying through the air. It could kill somebody, at least poke an eye out. Why does Atha Garu insist on cooking with that thing? She tells me, “Ohhh Liss…the new ones are no good. Curry takes a long time to prepare Liss.” No matter the reason, whatever goes into that pressure cooker, something incredible always comes out.

A simmer pot sits next to the pressure cooker heating a dash of vegetable oil. I peek inside: the oil sputters, letting us know it’s ready. Atha Garu removes our metal spice tray from the cabinet and opens it. Fingerprint stains from meals before mark the sides of the tray. The small curry impressions have never been cleaned off. They all look the same. They are all hers. No one else helps her in the kitchen.

She adds the fenugreek and mustard to the oil, the seeds pop, splitting them just right. She swivels her head in satisfaction, adding chopped onion and garlic next. They sizzle. She stirs the ingredients. Oil spatters. Freshly grated ginger makes everything hiss. The air becomes potent, sweet and bitter. The fumes make my eyes and mouth water for conflicting reasons. The exhaust fan is turned on and the window opened. There is no mistaking our house. The all- consuming scent of curry, that is both invigorating and offensive have seeped into our furniture.

Only the sound of the pressure cooker toggle can compete with the aroma. Twenty minutes have certainly passed by now. You can smell it meld together from all the rooms of our house. The garlic and onion has fried perfectly; the remaining spices are added. Fennel, cumin, coriander, red chilies, cloves, green and black cardamom, black pepper, bay leaf, chili powder, turmeric powder go in by the spoonful. A pinch of asafetida makes it complete, to help dissipate the gasses. If the spices are not fried now, they won’t coat the chana properly. They’ll taste raw, bitter, make my tongue feel dry, like cotton balls have invaded, ruining our dish.

Atha Garu lowers the heat slightly. Tomato is the base of the dish. They will simmer, break apart and thicken, melding with the spices to create a thick red, spice speckled gravy. Curry gives an almost off-putting, sweaty aroma to the kitchen. What saves it of course is the sweet, sweet, inclusion of the calming spices, cinnamon, ginger, and coriander making me sink into a food coma like nothing else before it.

The pressure cooker lets off its last whistle before the flame is extinguished. The lid is unlatched and the chana revealed. Atha Garu pours the chana into the gravy pot carefully. The chana is instantly coated by the robust red gravy.

I glance at the rice cooker, hoping it’s finished. We eat rice every day, for every meal. We grow it in our paddi fields, we pour it on our heads when we marry, and we offer it to the gods at temple. It’s the staple of life for everyone here, and most auspicious.

My family uses basmati rice regularly. A long, skinny grain, it is light, almost fluffy when cooked. When the rice cooker lets off steam, you can distinguish basmati from all other types of rice by its pleasant, calming fragrance. It is distinct in its delicate grace, yet solid, undeniable stature. We know the care required to grow the crop, diligent is the farmer who tends a paddi field of basmati. A harvest that comes just once per year, requires the most attentive care. The finite water that may or may not come each time a well is tapped. Most Indians use basmati strictly for special occasions. It’s a rice to be celebrated. In America you might toast with champagne. In India, you know something is special when served with basmati.

Unlike many in Indian families, I get to eat it every day valuing its importance. Its delicate body absorbs curry in a rich all-consuming way, allowing my mouth to feel my meal. I think about this as I watch the light on the rice cooker go out, meaning the rice is done. Saliva gushes from my glands and a ping of excitement in my stomach tells me there is no mistaking it now. My favorite meal is ready.

We ask the men when they’d like to eat. They decide what time is best. If Atha Garu wasn’t here, I’d eat now and heat the men a plate later if they aren’t hungry. But Atha Garu is in charge, so we will be respectful.

We set the table together, placing our rimmed steel plates and water cups in front of each chair. Curds, rice and chana are poured into bowls and placed on the table along with a jar of pickle. Atha Garu opens the jar, resting a spoon on the lid. The overwhelming pungent smell of garlic, chili, mustard oil, and pepper make its way to my nostrils. A total assault on every taste bud in my mouth, it’s a preserved, salty attack on my senses.

Atha Garu made the curds too, although not today. It grows and forms and sits on the table meal after meal. When we run low, she takes a portion of the current lot and use it to grow a new batch. It isn’t sticky like the yogurt in America; it’s clean and light, smooth and crisp. It compliments rice naturally.

The men have agreed it’s time. We sit together, spooning the food onto our steel plates. I eat with my hands, as all people do in South India. My fingers work, weaving each item on my plate into perfect proportions of rice, chana, curds and pickle. My hands have taken away the sterile effect of a utensil and allow an organic experience, feeling each ingredient before they enter my mouth.

I slowly slide the first mound into my mouth and know I’ve mixed well. The curry clings to the rice as it’s tossed around by my tongue, dancing with joy. I close my eyes for a moment and inhale through my nose. The sweet, spicy smell at the table is the most comforting of all.

Incredibly spicy, my tongue tingles, knowing this is because I’m part of a south Indian family. The curds send a cool chaser down my throat.

I’ll go back for seconds, maybe more. My plate will be licked clean.