9:16pm in the suburbs

We’re sitting in silence in my mom’s car, adjusting from the comforting cocoon of our first Yin Yoga class together. The vibrations from the sound bowls are still ringing in our ears.

My stomach rumbles.

I call my father, who’s watching TV back at home.

“Did you already eat?”

He confirms that yes, he ate all the leftovers in the fridge. He suggests we pick something up on the way for dinner.

I glance at the car dash. 9:16pm in the suburbs. Without looking at Google Maps, I already know - everything around us has long been closed.

“What if I made you corn ka dish?”

I tilt my head to the side, confused.

“You know, that dish I make with pasta and chicken.”

I look out at the empty streets as we glide past. Memories of a dish from my childhood flash by - the creamy, hot, comforting bowl that my sister and I would always finish in minutes.

“Whenever my mom used to make it in Pakistan, we’d really enjoy it. It wasn’t a dish for parties or gatherings, but it also wasn’t a daily staple - it fell somewhere in-between, and made a regular Tuesday night memorable for us when we were young.”

She presses her foot on the pedal as the light turns yellow. I ask her what’s usually inside.

“Creamy shredded chicken, cilantro, and ketchup. And of course, corn. Your nani was particular with the ratio - half blended, half whole. I do the same to this day. And then these fried bread pieces on top.”

I was curious when she made it for the first time.

“When I came to America, I made sure I had this recipe with me - it reminded me of home in a slightly different way than nihari or gosht ka salan. Your father loved it, you kids loved it, so I continued to make it.”

She pulls into the driveway. Car doors open and slam shut.

“I want to help you make this chicken corn business. You call it corn ka dish, right?”

“Yeah. No one I know makes this - it’s not a traditional Pakistani dish.”

“But it’s our traditional family dish.”

“Exactly.”

Keys jingle. Yoga mat tossed aside. Hands scrubbed under steaming hot water.

I pull apart the cold rotisserie chicken from Costco. My mom starts boiling pasta, from the forgotten box tucked on our shelf.

The clink of glass bottles on the countertop - soy sauce, ketchup, fresh ginger and garlic.

Under her watchful eye, I pour each one into the bubbling pot, splashing milk on top.

Half a can of corn. And then the grumble of the blender. A half a can of corn slushy follows.

“Butter in the pan, please.”

The sizzle of a few slivers on the pan as I guide them around. My mom glances over, her face twisting in disappointment.

“How will we toast the bread in that? We need more - a lot more.”

A bigger chunk of the stick is added. Tiny squares of bread thrown in.

The thud of a knife on a chopping board - carrots, cilantro, green onion. The bright garden joins the creamy concoction.

A final squeeze of lemon, and we each make ourselves a bowl and settle into the couch next to my dad. We’re silent again as we slowly savor each bite.

I’m packing my bags again in a few days, and I’m going to have to find a new grocery store.

But it’s comforting to know that as long as I have a can of corn, some shredded chicken, and a bit of milk, I can make a family recipe that has crossed oceans to make the heart a bit less hollow.

Read the story on our Substack here.