Butter, Bread, and Belonging

In desserts, biscuits, and bread, a rediscovery of love, home, and the little things that stay in the memory

- Vernika Awal

VER the past week, I've found myself adrift in a sea of change. The sort of change that leaves you grasping for something—anything—familiar. I've always sought solace in the known when the world around me shapeshifts. But oddly enough, this time, it wasn't my usual comfort food that I turned to. No khichdi, no steaming bowl of dal-chawal to anchor me. Instead, quite out of character, I ordered dessert.

At first, it felt like a spontaneous indulgence—perhaps even frivolous. But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. Somewhere, in the recesses of memory, that sugary, saccharine moment had its roots. It took me back to Dehradun, where my maternal family lived—a hill town known as much for its salubrious air as for its timeless bakeries. There, everything smells faintly of vanilla essence and old-world charm.

Then came Assam, where I spent part of my growing-up years in a small industrial town on the edge of the state. We had one bakery. Just one. And the sheer thrill of getting a pineapple pastry from there felt akin to winning the Pulitzer. That slice of cake, yellow-tinted cream and all, was joy in its purest form.