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In the Kitchen
- University of Arkansas Press
- Chapter
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In the Kitchen No one bothers me in here, assuming I’m putting myself to good use—fingers deep in dough, massaging bread into place, chanting names from the cupboard like a hymn: nutmeg and cinnamon, rosemary and basil. I’ve avoided this spot-lit stage: meat loosened from bone, fish stewing in a pot. All these spices push me into the background, too many to know their real names, just by sense of what they might be: masalas that make your nose run all the way from the front door. It’s my mother who can eye a pan and know what’s missing, measure by the feel of her hands. Even in close up, she never misses her mark, knows how everything • • • • • • cooks at its own pace. In the kitchen, she’s all business, all Hindi, teaching my hand how to memorize the curve of a ripe mango, the weight of coarse wheat. But I’m no good in translation, wasting hours in supermarket aisles looking for the familiar, for flavors that haunt the house for days. Nothing’s the same: encased in shiny, American packaging, neatly named, grim under florescent lights. My senses, my only savior: the way my tongue rings with it, turns to water. Now I steal away time from sink and stove, until my fingers cramp. This is the only kneading I can do— let words steep in their own juices until they are sweet and heavy. Fold them, one over the other. Whip and whisk them until firm and can stand on their own. • • • • • • ...