It's a quarter past five and I walk sleepily into the kitchen, my hand reaches for the medium-sized coffee filter and I not-so-precisely measure five heaping spoons of fresh grounds into it and with the other half of my brain pull out the milk to boil. I put away last night's clean and dry dishes as silently as possible, knowing the early morning stillness magnifies the sound of a tinkling spoon into something resembling cannon fire in the slumbering mind of the still-sleeping household. I watch the milk first slowly and then rapidly rise to a boil thinking of Kanthiamma, my maternal grandmother, tell me it's a good sign if the milk boils over. (Well it's done that several times over and I haven't noticed any unusual good luck coming my way.) I make my coffee and as I lift the tumbler to my lips I wonder whether it will be a "perfect coffee day". My friend Mahrookh visits my wandering mind at that moment, saying in her inimitable Tamil imitation "sariya iruka di?" A quick fade and there's my cousin Rajee who insists that you add the decoction to the hot milk, and not the other way round, to get the perfect cup. Then it's Elle's turn, sitting at her window seat in Jittery Joe's (I wonder if it's still there, the seat and the window and Jittery Joe's) joining me in an outsize cup while over a spillover discussion from the culture club. Then can Carolina be far behind, an image of her outside the downtown coffee bar where we last met in Athens, talking about the culture club in its current avatar, more graduate students, less Elle. I must pull my mind back to my kitchen in the here and now but while I am visiting Athens how can I not stop by Sarita's kitchen and glance at the two big filters made ready in the night by Ganesh, the official coffee maker of the Beechwood house? And of course there is Tonya, who loved the coffee I made for her, to go with the chocolate croissants from Harris Teeter, and here is Melinda, another comrade in graduate-school arms. Now I must turn my attention to the beans, and as I string them I think of Ramana in the huge kitchen at the base of Arunachala, lining up the beans and the strings in neat piles, my mind's image to Amma's recounting...but somewhere in the middle of that journey of consciousness I remember learning a new method of making paruppu usili by microwaving the dal instead of steaming it (thank you, Malati). From beans to the sambar is a quick journey interrupted by a long mental detour that takes me past many cooks who have added flavour to my life and many good meals I have shared with friends, cousins and others. By the time the rice and dal are done, and the lunch boxes are packed, I feel like I am back from a nice long visit over many cups of tea and coffee, having had a whiff of the aromas wafting from every kitchen I've been in and every table I've sat at. The most surprising memories, pop into my head when I am closeted in the kitchen every morning. More people than I send birthday greetings to or call even once a year, many whom I have not met in decades and am unlikely to ever meet again (some being in what we may call "a better place"). Some people with whom I share no connection other than a fleeting smile or a quick shake of the hand. It's amazing how many people touch you. And leave fingerprints in your memory.It's a quarter past five and I walk sleepily into the kitchen, my hand reaches for the medium-sized coffee filter and I not-so-precisely measure five heaping spoons of fresh grounds into it and with the other half of my brain pull out the milk to boil. I put away last night's clean and dry dishes as silently as possible, knowing the early morning stillness magnifies the sound of a tinkling spoon into something resembling cannon fire in the slumbering mind of the still-sleeping household. I watch the milk first slowly and then rapidly rise to a boil thinking of Kanthiamma, my maternal grandmother, tell me it's a good sign if the milk boils over. (Well it's done that several times over and I haven't noticed any unusual good luck coming my way.) I make my coffee and as I lift the tumbler to my lips I wonder whether it will be a "perfect coffee day". My friend Mahrookh visits my wandering mind at that moment, saying in her inimitable Tamil imitation "sariya iruka di?" A quick fade and there's my cousin Rajee who insists that you add the decoction to the hot milk, and not the other way round, to get the perfect cup. Then it's Elle's turn, sitting at her window seat in Jittery Joe's (I wonder if it's still there, the seat and the window and Jittery Joe's) joining me in an outsize cup while over a spillover discussion from the culture club. Then can Carolina be far behind, an image of her outside the downtown coffee bar where we last met in Athens, talking about the culture club in its current avatar, more graduate students, less Elle. I must pull my mind back to my kitchen in the here and now but while I am visiting Athens how can I not stop by Sarita's kitchen and glance at the two big filters made ready in the night by Ganesh, the official coffee maker of the Beechwood house? And of course there is Tonya, who loved the coffee I made for her, to go with the chocolate croissants from Harris Teeter, and here is Melinda, another comrade in graduate-school arms. Now I must turn my attention to the beans, and as I string them I think of Ramana in the huge kitchen at the base of Arunachala, lining up the beans and the strings in neat piles, my mind's image to Amma's recounting...but somewhere in the middle of that journey of consciousness I remember learning a new method of making paruppu usili by microwaving the dal instead of steaming it (thank you, Malati). From beans to the sambar is a quick journey interrupted by a long mental detour that takes me past many cooks who have added flavour to my life and many good meals I have shared with friends, cousins and others. By the time the rice and dal are done, and the lunch boxes are packed, I feel like I am back from a nice long visit over many cups of tea and coffee, having had a whiff of the aromas wafting from every kitchen I've been in and every table I've sat at. The most surprising memories, pop into my head when I am closeted in the kitchen every morning. More people than I send birthday greetings to or call even once a year, many whom I have not met in decades and am unlikely to ever meet again (some being in what we may call "a better place"). Some people with whom I share no connection other than a fleeting smile or a quick shake of the hand. It's amazing how many people touch you. And leave fingerprints in your memory.
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