feeding my soul

Yes, it happens in the kitchen. A peaceful symphony of spices at different temperatures to bring out the many nuances of their personalities; garlic ground fresh with salt, sometimes with a bit of chilli, and all my foremothers know I’ve earned my place in this most sacred of domains. Vinegar soaking into the sinews of red meat and I’ve practiced a sunnah and handed down a tradition to my daughters. Oh don’t I think I’m grand, don’t I know it and don’t I prove it when I feed others and soothe a gnawing pain and satisfy a craving, both mine and theirs. Tomatoes grated into red, gloopy loveliness. Onions sliced finely as a measure of my expertise. ‘Zanjabeel’ peeled into slivers of warm aroma. They all whisper a melody of ages, of healing. Of comfort. Because what I make with my hands is all the more dear, the passion seeps through my fingers and the muted rosaries I utter mingle seamlessly with the sizzling pot. Flavoured steam winds its way through my hair and the fabric of my clothes becoming eternally a part of who I am and all I will do. Something out of nothing. A tale out of longing. Whhole dhana surrenders itself to all consuming heat and mustard seeds jump around uncomfortably finally clinging for all they’re worth to marshmallow-soft potatoes. A magic spell woven out of what comes miraculously from the earth. I cook beauty…peace…mystery and, therefore I must be by extension, beautiful, peaceful and mysterious at heart. A thought that makes me giggle and smile, a thought that brings happiness to my kitchen. Its just God and me in here and for once I listen and follow each instruction to the best of my flawed abililty. And when its all done I open the lid impatiently; an expectant mother, a proud architect, a nervous choirmaster. I hope; a taste that will tell a thousand tales.

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