Every year, around April there is a subtle shift in me.
A pull towards something familiar. Something rooted. A spring clean of the house and a idea of a new year beginning. Spring and Avurudu.
Growing up it wasn’t something I felt deeply connected to. I knew it was there — of course I did. It meant two weeks off school. It meant plates of sweets in the form of kavum and kokis arriving from friends.
I went to live with my aunt and uncle, and suddenly Avurudu wasn’t just something in the background — it was happening properly, around me.
There were rhythms to it. Timings. Food being prepared with intention. A sense that the day meant something beyond just the day itself.
And I remember thinking — oh, this is what it is.
And I think that’s when I first understood the pause. Because that’s what it really is.
The cleaning, the preparing — it’s not just about making things look nice. It’s about stopping. Taking stock. Looking at what the year has been, and what you’re carrying into the next one.
It marks that moment when one solar cycle ends and another begins — a natural pause before stepping forward again. A time to pause, to gather, to play. From the laughter of traditional games to the comfort of sitting together over food, these are the moments that remind us what truly matters — connection, community, and gratitude.
Gratitude sits right at the centre of that for me.
I’ve come to understand more recently how powerful that is — how simply noticing what you have, what’s working, who’s around you, can shift everything. It pulls you away from what’s missing and brings you back to what’s already there, what you have.
And for me, that’s what Avurudu has become.
A moment to pause, to reset, and to remember what really matters.
But even then, if I really strip it back more, was the way everything was shared.
Food didn’t stay in your house.
It moved. Plates going next door.
Things being sent to friends.
Someone knocking with something they’d made.
You sending something back.
It didn’t matter what you were celebrating — it was always bigger than just you. And I loved that.
Because actually, that part wasn’t new to me.
My grandparents were Muslim — I wasn’t raised as one — but their home was always open, especially around Eid. People coming in and out, eating, talking, food taken to JK as offerings.
No real invitations — just an open door.
And I remember being sent out with plates of food, taking them to neighbours and friends.
And then on their holidays and special occasions they’d send something back.
That quiet, unspoken exchange. That understanding that celebration is something you pass on. That feeling of inclusion.
Of generosity. Of doors being open.
Living in England now, there are moments where I feel quite far from it. From that sense that everyone is doing it together. It can feel a bit quieter. A bit more contained.
Because actually, in small ways, it’s still there.
In the meals shared.
In the friends around a table.
In cooking for someone else, not just yourself.
In the messages you send — telling me you’ve made something for family, or friends, or passed it on.
And I realise — maybe it hasn’t gone anywhere.
It’s just changed shape.
For me now, Avurudu isn’t about recreating everything exactly as it was. It’s about holding onto the spirit of it. The sharing. The openness. The idea that food is never just food — it’s connection.
And if there’s one thing I hope we never lose, wherever we are, it’s that.
That instinct to send something next door.
To include people.
To make a bit more than we need, just in case someone else might need it too.
Because that, more than anything, is what feels like home to me.
And if you’re craving a little piece of that — whether it’s Avurudu, Eid, or simply a moment to pause and gather the people around you — that’s exactly why Little Big Flavour Kits exists.
To make it easier to cook, to share, to sit down together.
To pass something on.
If you’d like to recreate these moments of flavour and togetherness at home, you can shop now
