Tag: Pickle

The language of Anji’s place

Three rooms in all, and one for her well stocked food place; it is antique and new every morning even now with only a few sitting in. Some ask for her pickles, others pack a lunch of tomato rice, boiled eggs oh anything Anji may have. Somedays it isnt much at all. Yesterday she had garlic bread and home made sauces you want, you really want. It is like her- spiced just right, its essence rich with simple things.

Unsplash pic

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after lockdown we look more at the simple things and less at the complicated, say?

Anji has lived a simple life, nothing changes now for her. After her husband passed and her kids moved on, it’s been a quiet life. People who go by her Place know she isnt competitive, she looks at your face with a smile; and if you’re not happy she knows it. You get an extra helping.

She is different I guess; also has violet eyes and tiny curly brows. Must’ve been a ravishing beauty, oh still is. Her Ma was from Spain, her Pa from Zimbabwe. She speaks all our languages dont ask me how. Some people are gifted with more than the tongues of angels.

As another day begins I’m lingering on the thought that our homes speak a language we may not all recognize but others can.

Family Secrets

Thankyou Kate Motuang for mailing me this fantastic Five minute Friday link. Your word this time is Experience, I write 5 min flat, here goes:

Family Secrets

I admit of late, (with not much prior experience to saying such a thing), I now like the thing, I like cooking. Not a twinge in my bones warned me of this change, this betrayal of who I used to be.

Last month I found my Ma’s cookbook called Family Secrets; she’s written it all down there, I can smell her curry leaf seasoning, her tomato pickle in the window sill, her garden coriander leaf and onion gold fried in black bottomed pan;

my dad said that pan had nine lives, it never died.

I do not have Ma’s pan but I am changing, like my face in the mirror, like my hands that could not take cold water, or luke warm. Now I don’t need anything ‘just so’, just the aroma of veggie chopped cubes in slow stir; oh the experience, again of mint chutney we grew to love, all spluttery with mustard seed in coconut oil and tiny steel bowl served on dining table in veranda next to the kitchen. We lived by the sea, once on a mountain, an island, she always grew a garden, I have my own: sea shells in pots and Lime bonsai… those little green mint leaf? They spike lemon these days.

Flavors we once knew, they return in new ways. How d’you experience the same heart beat, in new rhythm… I cannot know, but its here.

I’m my Ma, a piece of her. I now love well- polished glasses, tinkly spoons. I never used to. Never admired wheat pure home-made breads in tiny warm basket, not just to eat but to serve. I’m changing, that’s for sure. It must be Time 😃!

Last night after the last dish went in and the moon was a full circle of cool warm shade in our window, a bird chirped full- throat, right in my pulse…I felt it, Life. In its simplicities. No fuss, nah no frill, just the old Order giving way to New. Like an old Prayer whispered all over again,

like tender mercies new every morning; I’m experiencing the everlasting Faithfulness of God.