……and its million different aromas, ricocheting off the kitchen walls, creating a potpourri of nostalgia…..
My mum’s kitchen is her workplace, where she conjures up sustenance and nourishment with an abundance of love.
My mum’s kitchen is where she truly became herself, but also where she was mostly alone.
Her food was the first thing I discovered, a ceremony called Annaprashan – marking the completion of the 6th month of my life with rice-based delicacies, transitioning from Exclusive Breastfeeding to semi-solids.
She fed me rice before school, a comfort food called Aloo-dim-bhate bhat (mashed potato, boiled eggs, and rice) that would fill you up but also make you drowsy at times, especially during summers.
She also made Indian pancakes that I would devour within seconds.
Lunches involved four courses. The first course started with something bitter – boiled Neem leaves or fried bitter gourd. Then, we moved to pulses and some vegetable fry/curry, followed by either fish or mutton and finally, either chatni or doi.
I believe it was to teach us Bengali kids lessons on delayed gratification, but I was a bad student. I always mixed everything up while she disapprovingly nodded her head.
Her kitchen has retained its smell and flavor wherever it has moved with her. The smell of cinnamon and cloves, with a hint of incense.
I have tried to recreate the smell in mine numerous times, yet failed.
I used to complain to her about my unsuccessful attempts, and she just smiled knowingly. But then one day it dawned on me, my mother’s kitchen smells like her and her version of her mum’s kitchen. Therefore, it is familiar but unique, identical in some ways, branching out in others.
Much like DNA.
Fingers in symphony 