It was spring in Chicago, election day, back when I was sentenced to—I mean a student at— the University of Chicago. Outside our apartment, of course, another freak March blizzard had dumped yet more feet of snow. Crews plowing the streets covered what remained visible of the parked cars. Here and there, old chairs defended parking spots which had been painstakingly shoveled clear and now belonged to their excavators by right of shovel.

At the polls, people who had (technically) been dead for decades continued to vote early and often. The temperature continued to drop. When it was nearing 0(F), the accepted greeting was, “Cold ‘nuff for ya?” At the corner market, the Old Man ringing up my milk and eggs asked, “What happens when it gets to 500-below zero in Chicago?”

I was pretty sure I didn’t want to know.

“Hell freezes over, Cubs take the Series, and the Bears win the Superbowl.”

But inside our apartment, my roommate Jaya was serving us a Kerala meal. She was sad that we didn’t have proper banana leaves, but she insisted we eat the rice and other dishes with our fingers. The tastes exploded on our tongues, and we couldn’t stop eating. All of us were crying from unexpected spices, talking and laughing and shoveling handfuls into our mouths. The snow might have piled around the building, temperatures continuing to plunge downward, but inside it was summer.

They say that taste and smell are the keepers of memories. For me, a proper South Indian meal smells and tastes like laughter and friendship and youth. So I loved this post by my friend Savithri on the joys of eating that most typical of South Indian dishes, Rasam Shadam.

(Oh, and if you get a chance, don’t miss her post BIO-SKETCH OF A TAM –BRAHM!)