Pooja Makhijani

The vanilla cake I made was real. The boyfriend? Not so much.

We talked to Rachita Sharma Pate about her daughter’s favorite foods, the passing of food traditions from one generation to the next, and how family preferences often determine what’s for dinner.

I made a multi-tiered celebration cake because I could.

We usually celebrate Diwali with friends and family, welcoming visitors with tea and sweets or reveling in others’ homes. This year we can't do that, but this dish will signify that closeness and bounty.

In the 2002 romcom Bend It Like Beckham, Mrs. Barma admonishes her daughter, Jess: “What family would want a daughter-in-law who can run around kicking football all day, but can’t make round chapatis?” South Asian popular culture is replete with such hijinks — of women and their mastery, or lack thereof, of making chapatis, the whole-wheat griddle breads that are ubiquitous in cuisines of the Subcontinent.

Somewhere along Interstate 95, in the middle of Virginia, the pun-laden signs began. I sat shotgun, alongside my father, in our Dodge Caravan. It was the summer of 1989, and nine of us, including my father’s sister and her family and a cousin on my mother’s side — all visiting from India — were en route from central New Jersey to Orlando, Florida. This was our family’s first trip to states south of Washington, D.C.

When it comes to bread, we’re with Oprah (we love bread!) and our admiration isn’t restricted to tangy sourdough loaves or crusty baguettes. Nearly every culture has strong opinions about bread products (see: Why the English Muffin Is Vastly Superior to the Bagel), and India is no exception. Flatbreads, in particular, are an important staple in South Asian cuisine, especially in the wheat-growing states of Northern India.

“What kind of Indian are you?” my now-husband said to me in college when he learned of my low (read: non-existent) tolerance for spice in my food. His palate preferred piquancy and pungency. “A bad one?” I answered. Geography was partly responsible for the discrepancy. Our South Asian-American families hail from opposite ends of the subcontinent: mine from Sindh in present-day Pakistan, via Maharashtra; my husband’s from Kerala, on India’s southwestern coast.