Spirals of Nostalgia: Ode to Muruku

In childhood's golden hours, oh Muruku, thou reign,

A South Indian delight, cherished without refrain.

With nimble fingers weaving, dough in spiral grace,

A snack that whispers tales of grandma's warm embrace.

Upon the kitchen's stage, where magic always brewed,

There danced the melody of flavors, rich and shrewd.

A symphony of spices, a carnival of crunch,

Each bite a celebration, a culinary punch.

At dawn's first light, the dough would come to life,

Kneaded with love, amidst the morning's strife.

A blend of rice and lentils, a sprinkle of delight,

Formed into twisted spirals, a culinary flight.

The kitchen would transform, into a fragrant shrine,

As Muruku's essence filled the air, divine.

The sizzle of hot oil, the aroma sweet and bold,

A symphony of senses, a tale waiting to be told.

With eager anticipation, we'd gather 'round the flame,

To watch as Muruku danced, in the oil's warm claim.

Golden brown perfection, a sight to behold,

As memories of childhood, in our hearts unfold.

Crunchy, crispy, savory bliss, with every single bite,

A burst of flavor, a pure delight.

The spices sing upon the tongue, a dance of joy and glee,

As Muruku takes us back, to a place we long to be.

And oh, the joy of sharing, with friends and family dear,

As laughter filled the air, and love drew near.

For Muruku is more than just a snack, it's a bond that ties us tight,

A taste of home, a beacon in the night.

So here's to Muruku, beloved of my youth,

A treasure trove of memories, a testament to truth.

For in its humble form, lies a tale so grand,

Of love, of family, of a childhood's gentle hand.