It has been a while since I’ve blogged. Adjusting to a new way of life got in the way, but I always knew I’d come back to writing. Because ultimately it is my haven. Always has been. Always will be.

Since I hit 30, all the small big aspects of my life have shifted. But the most gentle yet significant shift has been my relationship with my immigrant parents. Although I have moved out for a few years, the home visits hit differently. They feel slightly more cozy and less chaotic. Partly because my parents are getting older but largely because our relationship is no longer that of a child and a parent. It has elements of it for sure, but it has inevtibly shifted to a friendship of sorts. Despite this shift, their love language has stayed the same. The love through a warm hand-made meal.

For decades immigrant parents have shown love for their offspring through fresh meals. Whether it is through a simple vegetable wrap or a lentil curry with warm rice. Whether it is by saving the last bite for their child or bringing them a bowl of fresh fruit while they are studying.

Growing up, my fondest memories were the warm chapati wraps my mum and I shared whilst I spent the evenings climbing the jungle gyms in the hot Dubai heat. The wraps had a sweet mixture with a small dollop of ghee, which gave me the sugar rush I needed to go exploring while my mother continued to chase me and feed me. As I got older the jungle gyms were replaced with long hours by the computer and the chapatis were replaced with bowls of seasonal fruit. I never realised it back then, but these gestures struck a cord in my heart because as I got older I found myself learning to love a warm meal too.

As someone who grew up in a generation of Uber Eats and DoorDash. If I were given the option of a warm lentil curry with fresh chapatis vs takeaway. I’d pick the homemade meal in a heartbeat.

To this day, visiting my parents always results in me leaving with a warm meal in my belly. No matter the time of day.

So while I may not have grown up with daddy’s credit card. I grew up in a household that encouraged love through other means. A love that is often shared over a plate of warm food. A love known that is universally recognised in almost all immigrant households.