Shrikhand- Aryaa Dhakar

“GRAMMYS home!” Exclaimed my grandma as she walked through the main door. As I ran down the stairs she kept a few huge bags on the floor. I ran to her so fast, additionally hugging her when she picked me up.

“Are you ready to make your favorite dish?!”

“YES” I exclaimed eagerly, simultaneously running to the kitchen and standing there, tall and proud. She placed the following written on a list on the glossy marble countertop that had black cabinets that complimented the black wall cabinets:

Curd (clabber it at home)

Sugar

Saffron

Cardamom

Nuts- almonds, raisins, pistachio, cashew nuts

Cheesecloth

Mixing bowl

We exchanged the same determined look asI started our favorite playlist on my phone to listen to when we make shrikhand.

While we talked about our day, I started clabbering the milk by adding a sample of curd in it since that is the traditional way of clabbering curd at home in my family. After I did that, my grandmother helped me by putting it in a turned off oven. The reason she put it in the oven is because it was winter; however, when we make this in the summer it's acceptable to leave it outside at a constant temperature.

Hours later, I awoke to a low, barring, and repetitive sound. Me and my grandma both hate this irksome sound. Google reminds me that I have to put the thickened curd into the refrigerator to cool it down with the intent that it gets a perfect texture.

Unexpectedly, I hear utensils clattering early in the morning. Startled, kind of forgetful about the fact my grams arrived yesterday, I walked towards her -scrutinizing the fact if she’s a hallucination or not. My grandmother - an early bird who wakes up at 5am, - takes the clabbered curd out of the refrigerator and hums to herself as she empties the contents into a cheesecloth. My grandma doesn’t appreciate it when other people (like my mom or our previous butler) interrupt the process since they aren't as acknowledged in traditional family cooking like me and her. As a result, she ties it to the kitchen sink and puts a container below it without anyone’s help.

At the moment when she unties the cheesecloth, I enter the kitchen again freshened up while I gather the mixing bowl and cold milk from the supply closet. When the cheesecloth is emptied out into the mixing bowl, I mix it until it's smoothened out, which is when my grandma always brings the topic of my mom up. She tells me childhood stories of her while I bring in the other ingredients: sugar saffron and cardamom. While my grandma adds those 3 ingredients, she tells me about me when I was younger.

I smile as I miss those moments while accidentally knocking the pistachio container over.

“Good thing we hadn’t peeled them yet,” says my grandma. I apologize quickly as I pick them up. Gathering just the right amount of almonds, raisins, and cashews, I place them alongside the pistachios.

My grandma expresses her love for this part of making the dish since we are almost done.

After decorating 20 small glasses, we store it in the refrigerator. Finally, off-duty, me and my grandmother exit the kitch-

I wake up with my eyes watering. My chest suddenly heavy as I come  to the realization it was just a dream of a revisited memory.

      “When will you accept the fact she’s gone, Aryaa? It's been years..”