That sounded really good. A mango habanero masala dosa was something she might be tempted to kill for right about now. Maybe her mother and she could do this. Mother-daughter things. They had gone out for meals when Naina had visited. Everything had been easier because she had just been visiting.

Since Naina had moved back, they’d never done this. Probably because the breakup happened and Naina stopped talking to her father. Her mother had found that impossible to navigate and mostly ignored Naina.

In the time that it took Naina to shower and pull on a sweater over jeans, her mother had poured the gallon of milk she had in the fridge into a saucepan and turned it into paneer.

As Naina emerged, trying to twist her still-too-short hair into a crab clip, Mummy was straining the paneer into a sieve and putting a weight on it to drain the water. Her mother made the best paneer in the world. It was legendary. So loved was it that she made enough for all her friends, even though paneer could now be purchased in the cheese section of every grocery store across the Bay.

Nobody else loved it quite as much as Naina did. Yes, she was a Punjabi stereotype. She loved her paneer. Being her mother’s daughter, she only ever wanted to eat her mother’s.

How can you be Punjabi and not like to dance?

“Thank you. That was very kind of you.” She broke off a chunk of fresh paneer from the edge of the sieve and put it in her mouth. “How do you make it taste like this?”

Her mother dusted off her hands as though it were the simplest of things, but her eyes twinkled. “What’s the big thing in making paneer?”

“For you there’s no big deal, but for those of us who get to taste yours, only yours will do. You ruin us for lesser paneer.”

When they left the apartment and headed to Dosa, her mother was grinning from ear to ear. Thanks to that stupid Tylenol, Naina’s headache had receded enough that it didn’t make her want to fold in half. Mummy’s conversation turned to her beloved fabrics and fashion. Naina’s mind tuned out and floated along, forgetting to push away the hope that wrapped around them.

As always, the dosas were perfect, crisp and lacy, and the unusual chef’s addition of the habanero chutney made Naina’s mouth burn in the best way. She’d inherited her ability to tolerate spice from her mother. Dr. Kohli was something of a wimp in this department, and so, naturally Naina and her mother only ever ate the truly hot stuff when he wasn’t around.