A Rainy Day in Mum’s Kitchen

 When I think about my childhood, the first thing that comes to mind isn’t school or birthdays. It’s Mum’s kitchen.

It was always the warmest place in the house full of smells that made you wonder what was cooking even before you walked in. On rainy days, it felt like the whole world slowed down. The roads outside would go silent, and all you could hear was the steady raindrops and the sound of something sizzling on the stove.

One afternoon, when I was small, the rain felt like it was never going to stop. I complained that I had nothing to do, hoping someone would magically entertain me. Mum was busy kneading dough at the table. She looked up, smiled, and said:

“Come help me. We’ll make roti.”

I wasn’t sure if it would be fun, but I climbed onto a chair anyway. She gave me a tiny ball of dough and told me to flatten it like hers. Easy, I thought.

It wasn’t.

My roti turned into weird shapes one looked like a star, another like a sad little triangle. Mum laughed softly and said, “It doesn’t matter what shape it is… it will still taste good.”

We cooked them one by one. The heat from the pan warmed my hands. The roti puffed up slightly and smelled so good that my stomach made noise before I even took a bite. Mum tore a small piece, dipped it in sambol, and handed it to me.

It was simple. Just roti and sambol. But I remember thinking it tasted better than anything else in the world.

Now, whenever it rains, I don’t feel like it’s a gloomy day. It reminds me of that moment me standing on a chair, flour everywhere, and Mum turning an ordinary day into something I’ll never forget.

Food can do that.
It can carry memories even the small ones.