Every year, on the day of Eid al-Ftr, I wake up to the steam going off from the pressure cooker. I know mom's making grandma's traditional old-fashioned Bengali Pudding. It's not the creamy pudding that you find in grocery stores. The top of the pudding is purposely burned, and the sides are a creamy, light-brown color.
Growing up my family didn’t celebrate any American holidays. My siblings use to be a bit annoyed at our parents but that also meant that we looked forward to Eid al-Ftr. Benglai Pudding somehow made us forget about those frustrations. When my parents fell asleep, we snuck out of our room and tip-toed down the hall to fill our stomachs with more pudding. It became an annual tradition. Every year, we always tried to leave a small piece behind. We thought mom wouldn't notice if we did that. She questioned us all day, but my brother and I worked with each other.
I look back and recognize why my mom never tried to break the ice of our lies from the start. She saw that it was one of the few times that my brother and I appreciated Bengali food and culture. She saw us embracing a tradition from our heritage. She saw it as a “job well done” to make us forget about American food and enjoy a simple dessert that all classes in Bangladesh has access too. She saw my brother and me as children from Bangladesh during Eid al-Ftr. It was only later on that my brother and I realized this too.