The Kitchen
Every time I write letters in shaky penmanship, I am faced with the task of looking at my hands. My fingers are rough and stubby—with neatly trimmed nails. I no longer house a calcium deficiency along the crescents of my thumbs—but there are more pressing matters at hand.
I have a number of knicks and burns I proudly flaunt. There is one on the corner of my thumb—a burn scar on the side of my wrist—and tiny flecks that dot my palm. I am slightly proud of them—for a number of reasons that aren’t perverse—I promise.
The truth is—cooking is my love —my labour of love! I proudly finger the lines of my palms. I am young and naïve. I crack watermelons open with shaky courage and slice my thumb. I touch a boiling pan of water and wince. I nick my finger when I chop onions in cocky confidence. I wonder if things would be different if I had a rat grabbing tiny fistfuls of my hair. If only my scalp wasn’t sensitive…
I miss the warm glow of The Kitchen back home: crackling oil and spice in the air. My mother would gently sift rice and chop vegetables with a razor sharp focus. It was the first time I saw such discipline in a mundane chore. She was precise with her calculations—her scientific prowess unconsciously pouring into her actions. She wiped the mouth of pots with her thumb and pensively licked them. She pinched spices in the cracks of her fingers as she sprinkled them on dishes. Watching her was a spectacle and an experiment all in one.
Now I try to mimic her precision and replicate a shoddy performance. Long gone are the days I can hide behind her skirt. Now I am standing before flames begging to be consumed. When my friends exclaim at my dishes my heart skips a beat. My love for them nestles deep in the folds of marinated chicken. The whispers of my love linger in soft bowls of rice and mist the air. When it warms their belly, I grow in size until they open their mouths and burp. I float into the air—having served my purpose—and disappear forever.
I will go back to writing letters. I will catch glimpses of my sullied hands. I will wake up and live each day and come home and make food that will bring peace. I will cry at work and sulk on the tube and groan at the television but when I am in the kitchen, I will be alive. I will lean against the fridge at 3AM and devour the water whole. I will sit on the counter with legs swinging and answer texts. I will spread my legs and accept warmth with the oven burning languidly.
One day these cuts will fade away. I will be adept at cooking—and careful. A ring will sit where a scar previously reigned supreme. I will look back and smile. Remember when I ran cold water over a throbbing hand? Remember when I cracked up with my chosen family over imitation chicken?
But for now I will call my mother and weep when I mess up the family recipes. I will screw up salt ratios. I will notice blood dripping from my thumb in splotches on diced cauliflower. It is nothing a kiss and a plaster can’t fix. I keep closing my eyes and hoping I wake up with an island counter. I never do.
Photo by Nastya Nikiforova. Edited by Madison Case.
