A Seasoned Summer
Photos by Michael Piazza / Styled by Catrine Kelty
Food is a feeling—an emotion stirred by memory, flavor and the act of gathering. For me, it’s both nostalgia and presence. The sharp aroma of sizzling garlic instantly takes me to my mother’s kitchen in India. I hear the pounding of spices, the steady rhythm of her hands working with purpose, the hiss of the pressure cooker building anticipation. These sounds and smells root me—evoking a deep, almost primordial connection to comfort, love and nourishment.
Growing up, my summers in India were steeped in ritual and flavor. They meant freedom, long days and the joy of eating with my hands. I remember the taste of fire-roasted corn brushed with chili, lime and kala namak; hot stuffed parathas served with freshly churned butter; juicy mangoes, their pulp running down my elbow; and afternoons cooled by fruity sherbets. Those were the moments when time felt abundant and meals punctuated our days.
Now, living in New England, I’ve come to embrace a different kind of seasonality. Our summers are short and intense—filled with salty ocean breezes scented with beach roses, peaches so ripe they drip down my chin on the drive back from the farmers market and patio meals shared with family while the sun lingers just a bit longer. It’s in this fleeting beauty that I’m reminded to savor every moment, every bite.
Indian culinary traditions have always emphasized seasonal, mindful eating, deeply rooted in the wisdom of Ayurveda. I carry that philosophy with me. I believe food is medicine—especially when it’s made with care, with the best ingredients and shared with others. Cooking is my grounding force. It’s where I channel my creativity and where I feel most like myself.
In my kitchen, two worlds come together: the fresh, local New England produce—sweet corn, heirloom tomatoes, rhubarb, stone fruit—and the layers of Indian spices, techniques and memories. Whether I’m developing recipes for my small food business or cooking upma on a Sunday morning—the first dish my mother ever taught me—every meal becomes a moment to be present, finding comfort and celebrating generational flavors.
Cooking allows me to tell my story. It lets me connect—to my roots, to this land that I now call home and to the people I cook for. One dish at a time, I blend old and new, East and West, tradition and imagination. In that quiet alchemy, I find nourishment, belonging and a little bit of magic.
This story appeared in the Summer 2025 issue.
