A Rabadi Reunion

 After what felt like an eternity, I finally landed in Trichy a place that smells like nostalgia and feels like home. The journey was long, my playlist had been on loop way too many times, and my patience was running thin. But the second I stepped through the door, all my exhaustion melted away. Because there it was the smell of home.  

Mom greeted me with her signature smile, and the dining table greeted me with something even better: food. Not just food, but home-cooked happiness. You know that feeling when your taste buds go into overdrive even before you take a bite? Yep, that was me. From the classic dal-chawal to perfectly crispy dosas, every dish felt like a warm hug after a cold day.  

But the showstopper? Mom’s rabadi. Creamy, dreamy, and straight-up divine. It wasn’t just dessert; it was an emotion served in a bowl. One spoonful and BAM taste buds activated. It was like a flavor explosion that said, “Welcome home, kid.” The sweetness, the richness, and that subtle saffron aroma it all screamed perfection.  

While savoring each bite, I realized how much I had missed this. Hostel food is cool and all (okay, not really), but nothing and I mean nothing comes close to the magic of homemade goodness. It’s more than just food; it’s love, comfort, and memories plated up.  

So here I am, fully stuffed and fully content, thinking about how food has this insane power to heal, connect, and bring pure joy. .

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