The pot simmers low and patient, rice grains softening into milk that thickens like time itself. A wooden spoon moves in circles — the same motion in kitchens separated by a narrow sea, united by a single dessert. When it's ready, the pudding is spooned into clay bowls and placed beneath the broiler, where sugar caramelizes into a crackling crown of burnt amber. Cinnamon swirls through the cream in delicate ribbons, and rosewater whispers at the edges, barely there but impossible to forget. This is comfort made tangible: quiet evenings, silver spoons, and the kind of sweetness that asks for nothing in return. Sütlaç. Rizogalo. Two names, one ritual, endless warmth.