years of her apprenticeship in the kitchen he’d wondered who would crack first: Sima, whose resistance seemed a denial of her very gender, or his mother, in denial herself, her cuisine a refusal to admit they’d ever left Uganda.
His mum had evinced a constant dissatisfaction with the ingredients she could find in England, and in Cherry Gardens her demeanour was that of an army field-cook, working under intolerable conditions, forced to make the best of what was available. Notwithstanding her complaints, she displayed an admirable inventiveness. Satish could still remember their home in Kampala, the strings of green chillis hanging from the kitchen ceiling. His mum would buy them at the market, hang them for a few days in the dry equatorial heat, then pound them to a powder. Installed in the dampness of Bourne Heath she continued to disdain shop-bought spices, and instead commandeered the airing cupboard for her precious chillis. She’d take a bus ride into Bassetsbury to buy them fresh, then hang them from the water pipes amidst towels and sheets. Even so it wasn’t uncommon, as the family tucked into a meal, to hear her softly tutting at what she’d been reduced to.
In those early days in Cherry Gardens, when he was still young enough to want to stick around, Satish would spend time with his mum in the kitchen. As she prepared the meal, she’d murmur her mantra over the food. ‘We thank the food, and we ask forgiveness for killing it, even the plants,’ she told him. As she chopped herbs or sliced chicken, she taught him about the hierarchy of living things, with the cow at the top, the one animal they could never, ever eat.
‘Cows are like our mothers, because they give us their milk,’ she’d say. ‘You wouldn’t kill your mummy, would you, Sati?’ Some things changed, as they adapted to their new lives in Bourne Heath, but this never did. Later, when Sima was old enough to learn, he’d heard his mum instructing her in the order of things, in the hierarchy of nature and the maternal benevolence of the cow.
But Sima had proved to be less than biddable. Wilful even at five when she was just rinsing rice and rolling chapatis, she was a sullen malcontent at the age of nine, by which time she was chief vegetable chopper and washer-up. She’d pull a kitchen stool over to the counter, raising herself to roughly their mum’s height, and the two would snipe at each other over the spinach and lentils. By then Satish was just an occasional visitor, passing through. He’d grab any stray bits of food he could, then leave, heading outside to a game with Cai or upstairs to his room. Sima would watch him soulfully as he went. Careless of her suffering, he nevertheless tuned his senses to what was happening in the kitchen, keen not to miss any treats, and on a special day he’d not go far. That smell when the barfi was being made, sweet-sweet as the ghee started boiling, a promise of what was to come. Then when his mum added flour to the pan it changed: the smell you get at the start of rain. He’d time his entry into the kitchen, letting the fragrance of just-cooked barfi guide him, and then make off with a portion while it was still warm, the top sprinkled with almonds. Sometimes there would be a pan for them both to pick clean, the strings of melted sugar welded to the stainless steel, yielding to their nails and teeth.
Now, Sima’s calling the children for their tea, and Maya is busy retrieving them from their various nooks around the house. Satish knows what’s happening in there right now; his sister in perpetual motion, kitchen-to-table-to-kitchen, ferrying hot bowls of rice, dhal and chana nu shaak for the kids. They will clatter down the stairs soon enough, hungry and restive, elbowing for room, chorusing their thanks to his sister. It was just the same when he was a child, in Auntie Manju’s time; unlike Satish’s parents, Ranjeet’s family were strict vegetarians, and Manju’s virtuoso cooking was
His mum had evinced a constant dissatisfaction with the ingredients she could find in England, and in Cherry Gardens her demeanour was that of an army field-cook, working under intolerable conditions, forced to make the best of what was available. Notwithstanding her complaints, she displayed an admirable inventiveness. Satish could still remember their home in Kampala, the strings of green chillis hanging from the kitchen ceiling. His mum would buy them at the market, hang them for a few days in the dry equatorial heat, then pound them to a powder. Installed in the dampness of Bourne Heath she continued to disdain shop-bought spices, and instead commandeered the airing cupboard for her precious chillis. She’d take a bus ride into Bassetsbury to buy them fresh, then hang them from the water pipes amidst towels and sheets. Even so it wasn’t uncommon, as the family tucked into a meal, to hear her softly tutting at what she’d been reduced to.
In those early days in Cherry Gardens, when he was still young enough to want to stick around, Satish would spend time with his mum in the kitchen. As she prepared the meal, she’d murmur her mantra over the food. ‘We thank the food, and we ask forgiveness for killing it, even the plants,’ she told him. As she chopped herbs or sliced chicken, she taught him about the hierarchy of living things, with the cow at the top, the one animal they could never, ever eat.
‘Cows are like our mothers, because they give us their milk,’ she’d say. ‘You wouldn’t kill your mummy, would you, Sati?’ Some things changed, as they adapted to their new lives in Bourne Heath, but this never did. Later, when Sima was old enough to learn, he’d heard his mum instructing her in the order of things, in the hierarchy of nature and the maternal benevolence of the cow.
But Sima had proved to be less than biddable. Wilful even at five when she was just rinsing rice and rolling chapatis, she was a sullen malcontent at the age of nine, by which time she was chief vegetable chopper and washer-up. She’d pull a kitchen stool over to the counter, raising herself to roughly their mum’s height, and the two would snipe at each other over the spinach and lentils. By then Satish was just an occasional visitor, passing through. He’d grab any stray bits of food he could, then leave, heading outside to a game with Cai or upstairs to his room. Sima would watch him soulfully as he went. Careless of her suffering, he nevertheless tuned his senses to what was happening in the kitchen, keen not to miss any treats, and on a special day he’d not go far. That smell when the barfi was being made, sweet-sweet as the ghee started boiling, a promise of what was to come. Then when his mum added flour to the pan it changed: the smell you get at the start of rain. He’d time his entry into the kitchen, letting the fragrance of just-cooked barfi guide him, and then make off with a portion while it was still warm, the top sprinkled with almonds. Sometimes there would be a pan for them both to pick clean, the strings of melted sugar welded to the stainless steel, yielding to their nails and teeth.
Now, Sima’s calling the children for their tea, and Maya is busy retrieving them from their various nooks around the house. Satish knows what’s happening in there right now; his sister in perpetual motion, kitchen-to-table-to-kitchen, ferrying hot bowls of rice, dhal and chana nu shaak for the kids. They will clatter down the stairs soon enough, hungry and restive, elbowing for room, chorusing their thanks to his sister. It was just the same when he was a child, in Auntie Manju’s time; unlike Satish’s parents, Ranjeet’s family were strict vegetarians, and Manju’s virtuoso cooking was
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