Pan and Spatula
Mother never promised to return.
The clatter of the spatula against the pan woke Kati that morning as it had every morning she could remember. The warm scent of freshly cooked rice also played a part, not to mention the smoke from the stove and the smell of crispy fried eggs. But it was the sound of the spatula hitting the side of the pan that finally broke into Kati’s slumber and roused her from her dreams.
Kati never took long to wash her face and get dressed, and Grandpa joked that she just waved at the washbasin as she raced past. Grandma turned to look at Kati when she came into the kitchen. Grandma seldom smiled or greeted her. Grandpa said Grandma’s smiles were so rare they should be preserved and canned for export overseas, like top-quality produce.
Kati ladled rice into a silver bowl. The white of the rice matched the freshness of the morning air as she cradled the rice bowl against her. The warm steam rose and seemed to fill her chest and her heart, which began to beat faster and harder as she set off at a run for the pier. Grandpa was already waiting – reading his newspaper, as always. A tray containing curry, vegetables and fried fish, each in a small, clean plastic bag, was beside him. With the addition of Kati’s steaming bowl of rice, their daily merit offering to the monks was complete.
Before long came the sound of oars slapping the water, and the bow of a boat appeared round the bend. The vermilion robes of the venerable abbot added a flash of colour to the morning. The abbot’s pupil and nephew, Tong, flashed his teeth in a smile that could be seen from afar. Grandpa said Tong should join an acting troupe and go into comedy theatre, his smile was so contagious. Tong’s smiles came straight from his cheerful heart, made for his lips and twinkling eyes, and sent out ripples like a stone dropped in a pool so that people around him were affected too.
Under the big banyan tree, Grandpa poured water from a little brass vessel onto the ground, completing the offering to the monks. Like a river flowing from the mountains to the sea, the water symbolised the merit they had earned and passed on to departed loved ones. Kati joined her prayers to Grandpa’s and prayed silently that her own wishes would be granted.
Breakfast was waiting for them at home. They had a big meal like this every morning. Grandpa took the boiled vegetables with the pungent chili sauce, leaving the stir-fried vegetables and fried fish almost entirely to Kati. Grandpa avoided fried foods of all kinds. He complained behind Grandma’s back that eating her cooking was like eating everything coated in varnish, and that one day he would donate Grandma’s pan and spatula to the army to melt down for a cannon for King and Country. If Grandma heard him, she’d make such a racket with her spatula and pan that it was a miracle they were still able to do their duty afterwards.
The Lunch Container
Kati waited every day for Mother.
Kati loved her tin lunch container. Grandpa called it ‘the food-mobile’ and it was compact yet held just enough food to fill you up nicely. Grandma didn’t want to see leftover food brought home to rot and she knew exactly the capacity of Kati’s stomach. Grandma’s lunch menu never missed the mark, not with ever-tasty minced basil and chili chicken with a fried egg on top, or boiled eggs, rich brown because they’d soaked up the aniseed gravy overnight, or crispy fried ‘son-in-law’ eggs with their sweet-and-sour tamarind sauce, or smooth and creamy steamed egg custard, or quail eggs dipped in batter and fried. Grandpa called Kati an ‘eggivore’, for as long as the lunch menu included eggs there was never any need to coax Kati to eat – she would devour the lot every time.
Every school morning the bus would stop to pick up Kati. The route of the little open buses ran past the mouth of the lane leading to their house. Grandpa would give Kati a lift to the bus stop on the back
Mother never promised to return.
The clatter of the spatula against the pan woke Kati that morning as it had every morning she could remember. The warm scent of freshly cooked rice also played a part, not to mention the smoke from the stove and the smell of crispy fried eggs. But it was the sound of the spatula hitting the side of the pan that finally broke into Kati’s slumber and roused her from her dreams.
Kati never took long to wash her face and get dressed, and Grandpa joked that she just waved at the washbasin as she raced past. Grandma turned to look at Kati when she came into the kitchen. Grandma seldom smiled or greeted her. Grandpa said Grandma’s smiles were so rare they should be preserved and canned for export overseas, like top-quality produce.
Kati ladled rice into a silver bowl. The white of the rice matched the freshness of the morning air as she cradled the rice bowl against her. The warm steam rose and seemed to fill her chest and her heart, which began to beat faster and harder as she set off at a run for the pier. Grandpa was already waiting – reading his newspaper, as always. A tray containing curry, vegetables and fried fish, each in a small, clean plastic bag, was beside him. With the addition of Kati’s steaming bowl of rice, their daily merit offering to the monks was complete.
Before long came the sound of oars slapping the water, and the bow of a boat appeared round the bend. The vermilion robes of the venerable abbot added a flash of colour to the morning. The abbot’s pupil and nephew, Tong, flashed his teeth in a smile that could be seen from afar. Grandpa said Tong should join an acting troupe and go into comedy theatre, his smile was so contagious. Tong’s smiles came straight from his cheerful heart, made for his lips and twinkling eyes, and sent out ripples like a stone dropped in a pool so that people around him were affected too.
Under the big banyan tree, Grandpa poured water from a little brass vessel onto the ground, completing the offering to the monks. Like a river flowing from the mountains to the sea, the water symbolised the merit they had earned and passed on to departed loved ones. Kati joined her prayers to Grandpa’s and prayed silently that her own wishes would be granted.
Breakfast was waiting for them at home. They had a big meal like this every morning. Grandpa took the boiled vegetables with the pungent chili sauce, leaving the stir-fried vegetables and fried fish almost entirely to Kati. Grandpa avoided fried foods of all kinds. He complained behind Grandma’s back that eating her cooking was like eating everything coated in varnish, and that one day he would donate Grandma’s pan and spatula to the army to melt down for a cannon for King and Country. If Grandma heard him, she’d make such a racket with her spatula and pan that it was a miracle they were still able to do their duty afterwards.
The Lunch Container
Kati waited every day for Mother.
Kati loved her tin lunch container. Grandpa called it ‘the food-mobile’ and it was compact yet held just enough food to fill you up nicely. Grandma didn’t want to see leftover food brought home to rot and she knew exactly the capacity of Kati’s stomach. Grandma’s lunch menu never missed the mark, not with ever-tasty minced basil and chili chicken with a fried egg on top, or boiled eggs, rich brown because they’d soaked up the aniseed gravy overnight, or crispy fried ‘son-in-law’ eggs with their sweet-and-sour tamarind sauce, or smooth and creamy steamed egg custard, or quail eggs dipped in batter and fried. Grandpa called Kati an ‘eggivore’, for as long as the lunch menu included eggs there was never any need to coax Kati to eat – she would devour the lot every time.
Every school morning the bus would stop to pick up Kati. The route of the little open buses ran past the mouth of the lane leading to their house. Grandpa would give Kati a lift to the bus stop on the back
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