IN MY MOTHERS KITCHEN

Any man who has worked in his Mothers and his wife’s kitchen, knows that it is like occupying two universes. Your mind looks for stuff that is not there in places that don’t exist and by the time you come to terms with where you are, it is already time to move on.

It was at the crack of the dawn, that I found myself there. I was there to make sure that Mom and Dad had their morning cup of tea waiting for them when they woke up. Mom had taken a minor fall the prior evening and I thought it would be nice if she got her first cup served to her rather than having to make it herself.

I stood there for a full two minutes wondering how to get the burner going, since I couldn’t find the lighter or the matches. In my head I was mourning my Mothers depreciating housekeeping prowess’s, as I looked around for a spark. Finally it dawned upon me that, the burners were self starting types and didn’t need an external spark.

Then I scoured her fridge for the ginger and couldn’t find it till I decided to try one last compartment and there it was peeled and perfectly cubed

I found the grater, which is identical to the one I use at home and I greeted it with gusto, that one would normally reserve for that chance encounter in a distant land with a long lost childhood friend from ones hometown.

And then there were the minor moments of dissonance, do I pour cold milk into the hot tea or do I boil the fresh milk and pour it.

The very existential dilemma of how much sugar to add to the tea. Torn as I was between the spartan discipline that the Missus had practiced to keep me in shape, and the loving indulgence that my parents had blessed my childhood with, I fluctuated between one and two teaspoons of sugar per cup. I think I finally averaged it and my father would no doubt have a comment on it, no sooner than he takes his first sip.

In the end I came up with what I thought was tea of acceptable quality and I woke them up. I was surprised to hear that Mom had given up on her customary cup of tea in the morning and it was only Dad who had it.

Not knowing this disconcerted me more than any missing ingredient in the kitchen. I thought how many things have I become a stranger to even as I meet them every day.

Sometimes it’s not about the utensils you see, and it is not even about the ingredients. It is simply about the people.