When I walk by 28th street on 3rd (or Lexington Avenue?) there are many, many South and Southeast Asian restaurants to be seen. I like walking by these restaurants on the way back to the dorm and reading menus to see familiar terms like ” masala dosa” and “fish molee”. I see South and Southeast Asians running these restaurants and it’s comforting to see. Partially because I’ve eaten at some of these places before (and I’m forever hungry for more as a college freshman), but also because it reminds me of times in my own little India in Jackson Heights where my parents and I have celebrated birthdays, anniversaries and graduations. I’m reminded of the fondly missed curries and dals that my dad burned into pots with his own combinations of searing spices and hot oil. I also pass by the Indian stores such as Butala Emporium and see the many packets of incense, magazines and figurines. I’m reminded of the incense that my mom burns after my dad’s done cooking, the magazines that once littered our drawers and the elephant figurines standing on my shelves and generally around the house. This part of Manhattan is for memories.