"Pick a Word, Paint a Story #19"

Myself @aspiya From #Bangladesh

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Greetings Wonderful Individuals

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In this wonderful contest “PICK A WORD, PAINT A STORY #19” hosted by @senehasa, we are provided with three words to select one from; BED, COUGH and FOOD. I selected FOOD from them all because it's dear to my heart. Food is not just what we eat; it is also connected with our emotions, our memories, and our traditions. It unites families, forges memories, and, at times, recounts tales of love, care, and nostalgia. And today I’m here to tell such a story, one that still hangs in the taste of my heart.

“The Taste of Grandma’s Hands”

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It was monsoon in our village, the kind that mingled the smell of wet earth and the warm smell of mustard oil and spices wafting from the kitchen. I was 8, sitting cross-legged on the floor of my grandmother’s mud kitchen, watching her conjure magic from her hands.

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“Today we will make khichuri,” she said with a smile, her silver hair loose in a bun, the bangles around her wrist beating cousin to the rhythm of her stirring pot.

To the outside world, khichuri may have just been a simple combination of rice, lentils and vegetables. But for me, it was love in a dish. She’d always say “Good food is made with good intentions. “If your heart is happy, the food will taste divine.”

I sat, mesmerized, as the rain poured and thunder rumbled outside, like nature’s own drum. She would add ghee with such elegance, roasting the spices until they performed in the air, humming a lullaby only her stove seemed to comprehend.

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As soon as we sat down for our meal and I took my first bite I felt like I was being wrapped up in a warm embrace. It wasn’t just khichuri it was her memories, her patience, her stories, and her love.

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Years have passed. Grandma is gone now, but every time it rains and I make khichuri, I close my eyes, and I’m that eight-year-old girl all over again.” Sitting beside her. Not only learning a recipe, but also the meaning of family, warmth and the true magic of food.