Thanksgiving Masala

I was excited about my son, my only child, going off to college. I also knew it was taking him away from me. But one thing would always keep us connected

- By CYNTHIA GANDHI DOBBS, Tulsa, Oklahoma

Ah, I just love that smell,” my 18-year-old son, Obadiah, said, standing at the stove, searing the chicken we’d marinated for our famous Thanksgiving dish—tikka masala. Hints of ginger, garlic and Indian spices wafted in the air. Tikka masala might be a bit unusual for an American holiday meal, but in our multicultural family, it was the centerpiece.

“I thought I had this down,” he said, “but I’m still not sure how you get all this yogurt off before frying.” I grabbed a toothpick and said, “Let me show you again.”

I pierced a cube of chicken with my left hand, scraped off the extra marinade using my gloved right hand and returned it to the pan. “You make it look easy, Amma,” Obadiah said, with a smile that reached his warm, intelligent brown eyes.

Eyes that I'd loved looking into since they first blinked up at me when he was born. Now that baby face was slightly stubbled, the face of a young man who would soon be leaving home for college.

Trying to keep my tone casual, I said, “After a while, you get used to it.”

Just as you'll get used to this season of lasts, I told myself. This was our last Thanksgiving before Obadiah headed to Oklahoma State. I was excited for him, my only child, to embark on this new adventure. I knew he was ready. Yet I couldn’t help but wonder if we would have time together like this in the kitchen again—with no hurry, no need to check our calendars, just Obadiah walking out of his room and asking, “Amma, want me to be your sous chef today?” Would he be too busy with college friends? Engrossed in his classes? Occupied with new activities?