Rice pudding

Growing up, rice pudding was more than just a dessert in our family—it was a warm embrace in a bowl. I remember coming home from school on cold afternoons, the house filled with the sweet, creamy scent of simmering milk and cinnamon. My mother would always be at the stove, stirring the pot with gentle patience, coaxing the rice to its perfect tenderness.

There was something magical about the way she made rice pudding. It wasn’t just a recipe; it was a ritual. She would hum softly to herself, a tune I can still hear if I close my eyes, as if the melody was an essential ingredient. My siblings and I would gather around the kitchen, drawn to that comforting aroma, fighting for the first spoonful right out of the pot.

The best part, though, was when she’d sprinkle cinnamon on top, like dusting a little bit of love over each bowl. Sometimes, if we were lucky, she’d add a dollop of jam or a few raisins, turning it into a treasure hunt of flavors. We’d sit together at the table, blowing on each spoonful to cool it down, giggling between bites as the warmth spread through us from the inside out.

Rice pudding, for me, became synonymous with love, family, and those small, simple moments of happiness. It was never about the dish itself—it was the act of making it, sharing it, and creating memories around it. Even now, whenever I make it, I feel like I’m reconnecting with those moments of childhood innocence, where something as humble as rice pudding could make the world feel cozy and complete.