The Smell of Amma’s Kitchen and Other Things That Made Childhood Feel Safe
Ayush Singh | Aug 08, 2025, 09:11 IST
mumma's in kitchhen
( Image credit : Pixabay )
Highlight of the story: This nostalgic piece takes readers back to the comforting world of childhood, where safety wasn’t a place but a person often Amma. From the smell of her kitchen to festival rituals, afternoon naps, and even scraped knees, every moment reflected care and quiet love. Through everyday memories like warm rasam during illness or secrets shared on charpais, the article reminds us of a simpler time when love was shown, not spoken and how calling home today might still bring back that same warmth.
If you close your eyes for a moment and take a deep breath, you might just catch a whiff of childhood.
For many of us, it starts in the kitchen. Specifically, in Amma’s kitchen , where the smell of tempered mustard seeds, curry leaves sizzling in hot oil, and freshly cooked rice told us that all was well in the world.
Before smartphones and Google calendars, it was these sensory cues-aromas, sounds, even the clink of steel vessels,hat gave our days structure. And that warm familiarity wrapped around us like a soft cotton towel after a bath on a summer afternoon.
There’s a tenderness in the way mothers show love—often wordless, always comforting.
Amma may not have said "I love you" in so many words, but she made your favourite coconut chutney even on busy mornings. She woke up before dawn to pack your tiffin with piping hot puris when you had a school picnic.
The kitchen wasn’t just where food was made. It was where safety was cooked into your everyday life. Even today, walking into a house that smells like your childhood kitchen can dissolve years of growing up and bring you back to that small version of yourself—safe, hungry, and deeply loved.
Remember that old ceiling fan in the bedroom? The one that hummed just loud enough to lull you into sleep?
Summer afternoons were synonymous with naps after lunch. The world slowed down as you curled up next to your sibling or grandmother. That rhythmic whirr of the fan, paired with Amma’s saree pallu gently brushing your forehead, could quiet even the most restless minds.
These small rituals—napping, daydreaming, lazily turning the pages of Chandamama or Tinkle—built a world of safety, where the outside didn’t matter as long as the inside was still.
In today’s world, Diwali or Pongal often means discounts on smartphones and electronics. But back then, it meant waking up early to take an oil bath, wear new clothes that smelled faintly of starch, and sit down to eat sweets made at home days in advance.
It wasn’t about luxury—it was about togetherness. The entire house buzzed with activity, and you knew Amma had been working for days to get everything ready, even if she never said she was tired.
The excitement of lighting sparklers, watching your father hang paper lanterns, and sleeping next to your cousins on a mattress spread across the floor—that was the essence of safe, innocent joy.
Every house had that corner—be it the edge of a charpai on the terrace or a windowsill by the staircase—where stories were whispered and secrets shared.
As a child, your whole universe could collapse if your best friend didn’t talk to you at school. But you also knew that once you got home, Amma would listen. Maybe not fully understanding your drama, but offering a glass of Rasna and a tight hug that somehow made it okay.
Safety wasn’t always loud. It was quiet, like the way she tucked your school socks in your shoes the night before an exam or left the bathroom light on because you were scared of the dark.
It’s funny how even laundry had a memory. The scent of Dettol mixed with fabric softener on freshly ironed uniforms. The way Amma folded your shirts with such care, tucking in your ID card and slipping in an extra rupee for a surprise ice cream.
Mornings were chaotic, yes—but also full of dependable patterns. The steel lunchbox clinking against your schoolbag, the sound of your father’s scooter starting, and the final shout of “Bus aagayi!” from the balcony.
All of it wove a net of predictability around your young mind. It told you the world was steady. That things happened in order. That someone was always watching out for you.
Today, kids have curated screen time. Back then, we had scraped knees and muddy shirts.
You came home when the streetlights flickered on. And even then, Amma would yell from the verandah, towel in hand, threatening to pour a bucket of water over you if you didn’t come up immediately.
You didn’t need gyms or gadgets to feel alive. The safety came from knowing there was a steel tumbler of water waiting at home. A plate of hot upma. And someone who had waited for you.
Catching a cold wasn’t a medical emergency—it was a reason to stay in bed, watch Shaktimaan, and be pampered.
A bowl of warm rasam, a hand on your forehead, a piece of jaggery if you swallowed that bitter cough syrup. These were healing gestures that said, “You’re not alone.”
Amma didn’t have a medical degree, but her home remedies and her ability to sit beside you all night were better than any prescription.
As we grow older, memories are often tied to objects.
A yellowed birthday card with crooked handwriting. A pressed flower in an old book. A steel box with your name etched in shaky pencil.
These weren’t expensive things, but they were anchors. Each item was a timestamp from a period where you felt safe, seen, and loved.
Even today, one look at those tattered class notes can make you smile. Because you remember the hand that packed that bag. The voice that said, “Don’t forget your lunch.”
In chasing grades, jobs, and ambitions, most of us left behind the world that made us.
The innocence of not knowing what rent meant. The luxury of waking up to the smell of fresh dosas. The freedom of being able to cry without explanation.
The tragedy of growing up is not that we change—but that we forget. We forget what it was like to feel completely safe without earning it. To be taken care of, even when we didn’t know we needed care.
Today, if there’s one thing this memory reminds us of, it’s this: call home.
Ask Amma what she cooked today. Tell her you miss the smell of her rasam. Let her scold you for not wearing enough layers in winter.
Because in her voice, even now, there is safety. That same safety you once found in the folds of her saree, in the sizzle of her pan, and in the comfort of her silence.
Childhood wasn’t perfect. But for many of us, it was safe. Not because the world was kind—but because someone made it kind for us.
And so, even when the world feels uncertain today, close your eyes. Let the memories of Amma’s kitchen return.
Sometimes, that’s all it takes to feel whole again.
For many of us, it starts in the kitchen. Specifically, in Amma’s kitchen , where the smell of tempered mustard seeds, curry leaves sizzling in hot oil, and freshly cooked rice told us that all was well in the world.
Before smartphones and Google calendars, it was these sensory cues-aromas, sounds, even the clink of steel vessels,hat gave our days structure. And that warm familiarity wrapped around us like a soft cotton towel after a bath on a summer afternoon.
The Language of Smells: Amma’s Love Without Words
tasty food
( Image credit : Freepik )
There’s a tenderness in the way mothers show love—often wordless, always comforting.
Amma may not have said "I love you" in so many words, but she made your favourite coconut chutney even on busy mornings. She woke up before dawn to pack your tiffin with piping hot puris when you had a school picnic.
The kitchen wasn’t just where food was made. It was where safety was cooked into your everyday life. Even today, walking into a house that smells like your childhood kitchen can dissolve years of growing up and bring you back to that small version of yourself—safe, hungry, and deeply loved.
The Afternoon Nap and the Sound of the Fan
Summer afternoons were synonymous with naps after lunch. The world slowed down as you curled up next to your sibling or grandmother. That rhythmic whirr of the fan, paired with Amma’s saree pallu gently brushing your forehead, could quiet even the most restless minds.
These small rituals—napping, daydreaming, lazily turning the pages of Chandamama or Tinkle—built a world of safety, where the outside didn’t matter as long as the inside was still.
Festivals Meant New Clothes, Not New Phones
festival vibes
( Image credit : Freepik )
In today’s world, Diwali or Pongal often means discounts on smartphones and electronics. But back then, it meant waking up early to take an oil bath, wear new clothes that smelled faintly of starch, and sit down to eat sweets made at home days in advance.
It wasn’t about luxury—it was about togetherness. The entire house buzzed with activity, and you knew Amma had been working for days to get everything ready, even if she never said she was tired.
The excitement of lighting sparklers, watching your father hang paper lanterns, and sleeping next to your cousins on a mattress spread across the floor—that was the essence of safe, innocent joy.
The Corner of the Bed Where Secrets Were Shared
As a child, your whole universe could collapse if your best friend didn’t talk to you at school. But you also knew that once you got home, Amma would listen. Maybe not fully understanding your drama, but offering a glass of Rasna and a tight hug that somehow made it okay.
Safety wasn’t always loud. It was quiet, like the way she tucked your school socks in your shoes the night before an exam or left the bathroom light on because you were scared of the dark.
School Uniforms Smelled Like Home
Mornings were chaotic, yes—but also full of dependable patterns. The steel lunchbox clinking against your schoolbag, the sound of your father’s scooter starting, and the final shout of “Bus aagayi!” from the balcony.
All of it wove a net of predictability around your young mind. It told you the world was steady. That things happened in order. That someone was always watching out for you.
The Freedom of Playing Until Sundown
freedom
( Image credit : Pixabay )
Today, kids have curated screen time. Back then, we had scraped knees and muddy shirts.
You came home when the streetlights flickered on. And even then, Amma would yell from the verandah, towel in hand, threatening to pour a bucket of water over you if you didn’t come up immediately.
You didn’t need gyms or gadgets to feel alive. The safety came from knowing there was a steel tumbler of water waiting at home. A plate of hot upma. And someone who had waited for you.
Illness Was Met With Warmth, Not Panic
A bowl of warm rasam, a hand on your forehead, a piece of jaggery if you swallowed that bitter cough syrup. These were healing gestures that said, “You’re not alone.”
Amma didn’t have a medical degree, but her home remedies and her ability to sit beside you all night were better than any prescription.
Letters, Lockets and Old School Notebooks
school memories
( Image credit : Freepik )
As we grow older, memories are often tied to objects.
A yellowed birthday card with crooked handwriting. A pressed flower in an old book. A steel box with your name etched in shaky pencil.
These weren’t expensive things, but they were anchors. Each item was a timestamp from a period where you felt safe, seen, and loved.
Even today, one look at those tattered class notes can make you smile. Because you remember the hand that packed that bag. The voice that said, “Don’t forget your lunch.”
What We Lost While Growing Up
The innocence of not knowing what rent meant. The luxury of waking up to the smell of fresh dosas. The freedom of being able to cry without explanation.
The tragedy of growing up is not that we change—but that we forget. We forget what it was like to feel completely safe without earning it. To be taken care of, even when we didn’t know we needed care.
A Simple Reminder to Call Home
childhood memories
( Image credit : Pixabay )
Today, if there’s one thing this memory reminds us of, it’s this: call home.
Ask Amma what she cooked today. Tell her you miss the smell of her rasam. Let her scold you for not wearing enough layers in winter.
Because in her voice, even now, there is safety. That same safety you once found in the folds of her saree, in the sizzle of her pan, and in the comfort of her silence.
Safety Isn’t Always a Place. Sometimes, It’s a Person.
And so, even when the world feels uncertain today, close your eyes. Let the memories of Amma’s kitchen return.
Sometimes, that’s all it takes to feel whole again.