Mother's Day. Last year I was secretly pregnant and couldn't tell anyone. This year I'm very obviously pregnant and everyone has opinions.
Amma made brunch. Idli sambar, as is tradition. I ate five idli, which Amma noted with approval ("The baby is hungry") and Raj noted with concern ("That's a lot of idli for a person with no remaining stomach space"). Both are correct.
I gave Amma a gift: a framed photo of the two of us in the kitchen — Amma at the stove, me beside her, taken by Appa on some forgotten Sunday. In the photo, Amma is stirring something (sambar, probably — it's always sambar) and I'm watching her with the specific attention of a woman who is trying to learn not just the recipe but the gesture, the stance, the way she holds the ladle.
"Where did you find this?" Amma asked.
"Appa had it on his phone."
"I look old."
"You look beautiful."
"I look like a woman making sambar."
"You look like a woman making sambar beautifully."
She put the photo on the refrigerator, next to Appa's calendar and the list of emergency numbers and the Tamil calendar that tells her which days are auspicious. It's the most prime real estate in the Krishnamurthy kitchen.
I'm thirty-six weeks now. The baby has dropped — I can feel it, a shift in gravity, a lower heaviness. The doctor says she's in position. Head down. Ready.
I'm not ready. How is anyone ready for this? For the moment when you go from being a woman to being a mother, when the theoretical becomes physical, when the name you chose becomes the person you meet?
Anaya. In four weeks, give or take, I will meet Anaya.
I made Amma's vermicelli upma for dinner — the lazy version of upma, using thin vermicelli noodles instead of semolina. Five minutes, one pot, the easiest thing I can manage at thirty-six weeks when my feet are swollen and my back hurts and my heart is full of a terror that looks a lot like love.
Happy Mother's Day, Amma. You taught me to make sambar. I'm about to teach someone else.
The chain continues.
This is the dish I made that night — standing barefoot in the kitchen at thirty-six weeks, one hand on my lower back, the other stirring roasted vermicelli in a pot that used to be Amma’s. Vermicelli upma asks almost nothing of you: five minutes, a handful of pantry staples, a single pot. It’s the recipe you make when you’re too tired and too full of feeling to do anything complicated, and it feeds you anyway. Amma would approve.
Amma’s Vermicelli Upma
Prep Time: 2 minutes | Cook Time: 5 minutes | Total Time: 7 minutes | Servings: 2
Ingredients
- 1 cup thin Indian vermicelli (semiya), broken into 2-inch pieces
- 2 teaspoons oil or ghee
- 1/2 teaspoon mustard seeds
- 1/2 teaspoon urad dal
- 1 dried red chili, broken in half
- 8–10 curry leaves
- 1 small onion, finely diced
- 1 green chili, slit lengthwise
- 1/4 teaspoon turmeric powder
- 1 and 3/4 cups water
- Salt to taste
- 2 tablespoons roasted peanuts
- Juice of 1/2 lemon
- Fresh cilantro for garnish
Instructions
- Dry roast the vermicelli. Heat a wide pan or pot over medium heat. Add the vermicelli and toast, stirring constantly, until golden brown and fragrant, about 1–2 minutes. Transfer to a plate and set aside.
- Temper the spices. In the same pan, heat the oil or ghee over medium heat. Add mustard seeds and let them pop. Add urad dal and dried red chili, stirring until the dal turns golden, about 30 seconds. Add curry leaves — stand back, they splutter.
- Cook the onion. Add the diced onion and green chili. Sauté until the onion is soft and translucent, about 1–2 minutes. Stir in turmeric powder.
- Add water and vermicelli. Pour in the water, add salt, and bring to a boil. Add the roasted vermicelli and peanuts. Stir well, reduce heat to low, and cover. Cook for 2–3 minutes until the vermicelli absorbs the water and is tender but not mushy.
- Finish and serve. Remove from heat. Squeeze lemon juice over the top and fluff gently with a fork. Garnish with fresh cilantro. Serve warm.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 280 | Protein: 7g | Fat: 10g | Carbs: 42g | Fiber: 3g | Sodium: 310mg
About the cook who shared this
Priya Krishnamurthy
Week 111 of Priya’s 30-year story
· Edison, New Jersey
Priya is a pharmacist, wife, and mom of two in Edison, New Jersey — the town she grew up in, surrounded by the sights and smells of her mother's South Indian kitchen. These days, she splits her time between the hospital pharmacy, school pickups, and her own kitchen, where she cooks nearly every night. Her style is a blend of the Tamil recipes her mother taught her and the American comfort food her kids actually want to eat. She writes about the beautiful mess of balancing two cultures on one plate — and she wants you to know that ordering pizza is also an act of love.