Thoughts While Making Indian Food

It’s a cloudy Saturday afternoon. Late breakfast of apple, pear and banana muffin. I’m early afternoon hungry. I feel like fire and forest and garlic naan. Craving bread lately. We need butter. Add it to the list. 

Maybe I’ll start a forest school. An alternative academy to learn non-violent communication, read, yoga, drum-circle, read read read. I need to shave my head. Can’t do it yet. Settle for my chin.

The kitchen is quiet. Chipati flour, roasted garlic, water. Mix. Ball into lime-size pieces. Heat skillet. Roll balls into circles. Fry. Ten seconds and flip. 

I remind myself. Keep the dishes clean. Keep the stove clean. Wipe it off. Turn on the stove light so you can see. There you go. 

Kate’s immersed in Gray’s Anatomy; baby’s milk comatose. Goop is gone from baby’s eye. Dog is losing hair in clumps. Vet on Monday.

Naan goes with rice. Open frig. Rice is old. Don’t need a new bowl. Mix fenugreek, black pepper, pink salt, coriander, turmeric, two eggs, fist of flour with rice in tupperware. Press into pan. Bake. Never waste old rice. I threw it away the last time. Felt rotten lazy. 

Sister from Fargo calls. Says the soft head spot on her baby is only half an inch. How big is ours? Sister who lives in town texts. Says people are marching and chanting by the river. Sister from Colorado is silent today. Are we fond of one another because of time spent growing up or DNA?

Slice eggplant down the sternum. Roast at 400. When skin wrinkles, up to 450. 5 more minutes. Char those bastards. Cool. Scrape guts into bowl. Add tahini, lemon, salt, paprika. And something else. GARLIC. Always garlic. 

Saturday afternoon’s slipping. Why does the old testament god turn them into salt? I forget how much violence I’ve endured. Did god turn my mother into ashes? I’m okay with my dad now. Not his mother. This is my karma, one book says. I need to mend it. I think god should be turned to salt because it’s only fair. Or let’s delete the old testament. Why keep it if it’s wrong? 

Garlic naan, rice crackers, baba ganoush. 

Noodles? Yes but veggies first. Pickled carrot and red chili paste, turmeric, ginger, coconut milk, GARLIC. Sautéed onions, mushrooms. Simmer. Like jazz. All the anarchist philosophers and punks say jazz is the revolution. I don’t feel it. Still dig Bon Iver on repeat. 

Play reggae. Jah. This is an ancient day. One day you will rise again. 

Noodles are done. Kate is changing baby diaper, talking two octaves up. Baby is laughing, reaching for her feet. The cheeks hurt from smiling. Four more days, Kate says. Until we can see everybody. 

Take a bite. Swirl noodles around fork. The trip home to MN. The hard thing is to see myself as a controlling person, as a traumatized person, but mostly as a Type-AA controlling person and self-sooth with mantras like let go let go let go let go. Allow allow allow allow allow. Drugs?

Spin the noodles. Like mom showed me. Spin forkful of noodles on a spoon. Like grandma probably showed her. I should call grandma so she doesn’t think I hold a grudge for her not coming to mom’s funeral. I don’t know if the future of humanity is women. I don’t know what the future is or isn’t. Spin fork, swirl. 

Dim kitchen lights, mind ajar.