Cashew-Cardamom Shortbread

My late maternal grandmother made the best kaju katli (literally "cashew slice"). As a young child, I remember her pulling threads of chasni (hot sugar syrup) between her thumb and forefinger—no candy thermometer needed—and quickly incorporating nuts and spices, before rolling out the mass of candy with her well-worn rolling pin and slicing it into perfectly symmetrical diamonds. Her hands moved symphonically, with effortless grace. It was like music—and magic. Her kaju katli were firm and velvety and perfect.

I ate warm kaju katli in my grandmother's narrow railroad kitchen in India, and cold kaju katli from stashes transported back to the United States. Those sweets didn't last very long in our American refrigerator; although my mother often tried to replicate her mother's signature recipe in our New Jersey kitchen, it was never exactly the same.

Several years ago, I began to experiment with Western baking techniques and South Asian flavors, following the footsteps of countless bakers on TV, on social media and on the bookshelf. It was a creative pursuit that allowed me to bring my whole self—my whole pantry— to the proverbial table. With flour and butter and sugar, I explored the multidimensionality of my histories and geographies, and created some delicious desserts in the process: a pistachio-cardamom celebration cake, gulab jamun-inspired doughnuts, tamarind-jaggery gingersnaps.

And some of the sweets I created were destined for Diwali, a major festival across South Asia and in the South Asian diaspora, celebrated by Hindus, Jains, Sikhs and some Buddhists. Diwali celebrates the duality of good and evil, light and dark, and knowledge and ignorance, although the deities, rituals and stories that are associated with the holiday differ from region to region and community to community. When I was a child, Diwali meant opening gifts, lighting diyas and exchanging sweets. Now that I'm a mother, our Diwali celebrations include some traditional practices—new clothes and sparklers and gatherings—and also plants instead of rangoli (floor artwork), books instead of scripture, and cookies instead of mithai (confections).

In 2019, I decided to create a cookie recipe that evoked my grandmother's kaju katli, but without the finickiness of candymaking. They would complement my mother's now-signature recipe—besan ladoo, another nutty treat, made with gram flour, ghee, sugar and chopped almonds—in our family's Diwali sweet box. My grandmother's treat was rich and unctuous—kaju katli's primary ingredient is cashews, which, like all nuts, are high in fat. But they weren't very sweet and didn't melt in the mouth.

I tried various flours, sugars, fats and spices before landing on a buttery and crumbly and nutty and warm shortbread. It was a hit with loved ones and family: a college friend said its flavor lingered and was perfect with afternoon chai the next day.

Our diaspora Diwali is different, but spiritual, magical and textural in its own way. That I chose to honor my grandmother with a cookie that is now part of our Diwali repertoire is wholly me. My daughter is a third-generation American, and her identities are different from mine, from her ancestors'. I look forward to how she will transform our family celebration and create new constants in our lives.