“Can I do that?” Maitreyi asked again, her eyes sparkling with excitement.
My grandchildren are home for Sankranthi, and Maitreyi, the youngest, has been around me all morning, eager to try her hand at pressing Murukulu. She was fascinated by the brass muruku press, and her enthusiasm brought back so many memories.
“I am almost done kneading the dough, Maitreyi,” I replied, mixing the dough with care. Her anticipation was evident as she waited.
“When I was your age, I used to sit next to my mother in the kitchen waiting eagerly for my turn to press,” I said, handing her the brass press with a smile.
“Did you enjoy the activity, Ammama?” she asked, her small hands carefully pressing the dough.
“I loved it, especially when I did it alongside my mother,” I said, watching her focused yet playful attempts.
“Do you think mine are as perfect as yours used to be?” she asked innocently, pointing at the oddly shaped Murukulu.
“These are perfect!,” I assured her, carrying them to the kitchen for frying.
As I fried the Murukulu, Maitreyi settled on the kitchen floor, crunching the freshly made snack, happily telling me stories from her school. The laughter, warmth, and simple joy of those moments filled the air, just like the aroma of the golden Murukulu.