Steemians
I'm @mhsnrasel from Bangladesh.
Assalamualaikum alaikum everyone. Welcome to my another blog. In this blog I'm going to share with you a great time of mine.
June 16, 2025 was the sort of day that must have its own theme song
a ukulele tune with a snappy rhythm and sing-along quality, the words of which include the words fruit and friends. It started like any Monday morning: I got up, rubbed sleep from my eyes, and shoveled some breakfast in my mouth like a pro. The strategy was basic venture out, enjoy oneself, maybe chase butterflies. And then, like a burst of lightning within the cumulus of mango sweetness, I remembered: summer is upon us, candy season outdoors! Mangoes and jackfruits, and sugar saints help us!
java plums.
My mouth did the jive of delight, and I knew what I had to do.I mobilized the crew—my raffish crew of fruit-starved groupies who'd never turn down a good time or a snack. "Java plums, all!" I yelled out, most likely pirate captain-ing like crazy about sailing off to find treasure. We were all in on it, because who can resist the charms of those soft, dark orbs? Off we marched, our merry band of plum thieves, to fight the trees and take our prize.
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We hurled handfuls of java plums out, bounding sometimes over a sometimes yielding, squelchy mine that exploded on the ground like mauve paint. When we'd got a good store of them, it was magic time: masala mix. Now, if you'd never experienced the divine flavor of java plums chucked with a grating of hot masala, then you don't live. It's like the bathroom at a rave party in your mouth and the entire town is invited. We spiced up those plums with chili powder, salt, and whatever spices we could rummage around the spice bag (loose cumin seeds, probably). And what did we end up with?
A flavor rave that had everyone asking for their "mmmms" and cacophonizing with food noises. We were stuffed, dripping, and grinning like imbeciles at 3:00 PM. That's the playtime of the day, isn't it? Not a bit. Once we'd all slid slinking homewards, noses-first in snot, the night had other plans.
We gathered at street corner number five tea stall, where tea is bitter, the rumour mill is bitter, and the atmosphere is raw pandemonium. With a vial of liquid energy, a sheepish-voiced dude suggested we turn it up a notch. "To my nephew's house!" I hollered, and we zoomed off, a raucous group of snack-fueled lunatics. We pulled up at Rakib's to eat khichuri, because what more loudly shouts "we're living our best lives" than a sizzling pan of hot, soul-reviving rice and lentil paradise? We threw some chicken in for appearance's sake, why not? If you're cooking, then bulk cook or don't cook.
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Miracles kept us together.
Khichuri was heaven, spiced up and served with succulent chicken. We gulped the whole lot down with tart fizzy slices of lemon and raw onions, because we're just that sophisticated. Catching some sun, shoving khichuri down our throats, I couldn't help but think: this is the life. Good food, good friends, and loads of silliness over bad jokes. When I got into bed, I was bloated to the limit, to say the least—stomach, heart, the entire works. There never was a definite June 16, 2025;
it was a hum, a memory, something I'd be sharing years down the line.It evolved from java plum adventures to khichuri triumphs, and it was proof that the best days are the ones which are unplanned—just have your friends over, don't eat till the fruits are finished on the plate, and just let it go crazy.