August. The month New Jersey becomes a slow cooker — everything simmering in its own heat, the air too thick to move through quickly. I walk from the parking lot to the hospital pharmacy in the morning and arrive damp. Raj, who works in an aggressively air-conditioned cardiology unit, has no sympathy.
Work has been heavy this week. We're short-staffed — one pharmacist on vacation, another out with a back injury — and I've been covering extra hours. The hospital doesn't slow down in summer. If anything, the ER is busier: heat exhaustion, dehydration, kids with broken arms from pool accidents. The pharmacy fills prescriptions for all of it.
I like my work. I need to say that, because I've been thinking lately about what else I might want, and I don't want those thoughts to erase the fact that pharmacy is a good career and I am good at it. I catch drug interactions that residents miss. I counsel patients on medications with patience and clarity that Amma would recognize as her own teaching style. Last week I noticed that an elderly patient on warfarin had been prescribed a new antibiotic that could increase his bleeding risk — caught it before it went out, called the attending, adjusted the dose. That matters. That's a life, maybe, that I helped protect.
But the notebooks from India are sitting on my nightstand, and every night I read a few pages and feel a pull toward something I can't quite name. Not a career change — I'm not that reckless, and I'm definitely not that brave. Something more like a parallel track. A thing I do alongside pharmacy, not instead of it.
Writing, maybe. About food. About Amma's kitchen. About the specific experience of being a first-generation Indian-American woman who learned to cook in two cultures simultaneously and is still figuring out which recipes are hers.
That sounds grandiose. I'm probably just hot and overworked and having feelings.
Tonight I made something cold: a cucumber-yogurt raita that I turned into almost a salad — grated cucumber, thick yogurt, roasted cumin, mint, a pinch of sugar the way Appa likes it. We ate it with leftover rice and pickle, the kind of meal that doesn't require turning on the stove, which in August feels like an act of mercy.
Raj ate it standing in front of the open freezer, which is his version of air conditioning. "We should get a better AC unit," he said.
"Arvind offered us one from his warehouse."
"Your brother is a saint."
"He is many things. A saint is new."
We laughed. The apartment was hot and the raita was cold and the laughter helped more than the air conditioning ever could.
The raita we ate that night — cold, cumin-scented, a little sweet the way Appa always liked it — reminded me that yogurt is the thread running through so much of the cooking I love most: the marinade, the sauce, the cool counterpoint on a hot plate. These days, when I want something that honors that instinct but comes together before the apartment gets any warmer, I reach for this tandoori chicken naan pizza. It uses the same yogurt-and-spice logic as a good tandoori marinade, cooks fast enough that the oven isn’t on for long, and tastes like the kind of food I’d want waiting for me after a long hospital shift — familiar, a little smoky, and genuinely satisfying without requiring anything heroic from me.
Tandoori Chicken Naan Pizza
Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 20 min | Total Time: 35 min (plus 30 min marinating) | Servings: 4
Ingredients
- 4 pieces store-bought naan bread
- 1 lb boneless, skinless chicken breast, cut into 1-inch pieces
- 1/2 cup plain whole-milk yogurt
- 2 tablespoons tandoori masala spice blend
- 2 cloves garlic, finely minced
- 1 teaspoon fresh ginger, grated
- 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
- 1 tablespoon neutral oil (such as avocado or canola), plus more for brushing
- 1 cup shredded low-moisture mozzarella
- 1/2 red onion, thinly sliced into half-moons
- 1 small red bell pepper, thinly sliced
- 1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
- 3 tablespoons plain yogurt, for drizzling (optional)
- Fresh cilantro leaves, for serving
- Lemon wedges, for serving
Instructions
- Marinate the chicken. In a medium bowl, whisk together the yogurt, tandoori masala, garlic, ginger, lemon juice, oil, and salt. Add the chicken pieces and toss until fully coated. Cover and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes, or up to 4 hours.
- Preheat and prep. Preheat your oven to 425°F. Line a large rimmed baking sheet with foil and set a wire rack on top. Arrange the marinated chicken on the rack in a single layer.
- Cook the chicken. Roast chicken for 15–18 minutes, turning once halfway through, until cooked through and slightly charred at the edges. Remove from oven and let rest 5 minutes, then roughly chop into bite-sized pieces. Keep oven on.
- Build the pizzas. Place naan directly on a second baking sheet (or the same sheet, cleared and wiped). Brush each piece lightly with oil. Divide the mozzarella evenly across all four naan, then scatter the red onion and bell pepper slices over the cheese.
- Top and bake. Distribute the cooked tandoori chicken evenly over the four pizzas. Bake at 425°F for 8–10 minutes, until the cheese is melted and bubbly and the naan edges are golden and crisp.
- Finish and serve. Remove from oven. Drizzle each pizza with a spoonful of plain yogurt if desired. Scatter fresh cilantro over the top and serve immediately with lemon wedges on the side.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 430 | Protein: 34g | Fat: 15g | Carbs: 39g | Fiber: 2g | Sodium: 710mg
About the cook who shared this
Priya Krishnamurthy
Week 19 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.