Roti. It brings me to a bustling kitchen where hungry bellies are waiting—my mom’s favorite silver pan for the dough lays on the island with an off-white cheesecloth. Giant dough balls with my mom’s signature thumb impression in the middle lay underneath. The crooked, well-seasoned roti pan wobbling on the right burner is hissing with oil. The oil is to my right, and a clean hand towel is next to it. Flour is everywhere. The smell of curry is in the air. The pot is sitting on the rear left burner. Mom only curried chicken breast. The steam from the curry is billowing across the oven vent that is on. I would roll out dough with a large rolling pin. My roti was never round, to the dismay of my sister and dad. Sometimes, my sister would cook it, but I often did both. I would sneak a piece of the roti to ensure it was good. My mom sat nearby in the kitchen because she thought my lefthandedness would cause of the sudden calamity. Someone is looking for condensed milk, and there is a debate about who should go to the store to grab some. A piece of roti drizzled with condensed milk was a heavenly snack. Another pan is standing by to receive the cooked roti and there was usually a piece of foil or a plate to cover it.

I make roti as an adult, and it makes me cry. From the memories of my mom complaining about how arduous roti is, I can’t get mine to taste like hers.