One of my first memories of America was at a grocery store. At the age of four and a half, I arrived in Palo Alto, California, from India, with my mother and two siblings. I held onto my mother’s sari as we walked from aisle to aisle. I was amazed by everything I saw — the bushels and baskets of fresh fruit all beautifully displayed, the rows of colorful tissue paper, an entire aisle of paper products. I had never seen anything like it. But it was the jams and jellies that really got me. I noted the wondrous variety of jars packaged with checkerboard paper and ribbons around the neck, and I thought to myself: America is bountiful.