When one thinks about their ‘childhood’, I suppose that I must ask; have we actually passed the point deemed ‘child’ at eighteen? I do have to ask because just a few weeks ago (and which I still do, just in case) I had to ask to leave a room, to see a cousin, to call a friend, and the most understandable … Plan a day out.
I suppose that I could start this by saying ‘When I was younger’ … though technically, I still have the same child-problems, seeing as I haven’t grown (only physically … hopefully) as much as I should have, if at all, but even so.
Very well then, now that my confusing ramble has (probably) ended … Oh, what’s the saying? Ah, yes … On with the show!
If there was anything that I’d remember from when I was younger, I’d remember my grandmother’s cooking, because she was the one I’d go home to every day. I’d remember the spoon of rich she’d put on my plate, and the curry she’d pour over it, and of course, how could I forget the spoonfuls of vegetables I’d frowned and cried and screamed at?
Even through the tantrums I’d put up with the rest of my cousins, she’d remind us that we were fortunate enough to have food to ask for seconds if we wanted (though we hardly ever did, because it normally came with the vegetables we’d despised). It’s only now struck me that maybe she was reminiscing on her days as a mother to my mother and her five siblings. I’d remember the blue and yellow on my thighs when I’d misbehaved one too many times, though now I realised that those strikes made me better in some ways. I’d remember that she always cooked to mark a new day, that she cooked to mark a new occasion, and that no one ever argued with her in the kitchen.
I’d remember thinking that even though it was too spicy for me to eat without gulping down water in a manner that’d make her yell irately at me, I’d always enjoy the food she put in front of me. I’d remember eating somewhere else, when my mum and dad would go out to eat on the weekends, and think that I’d want that plate of curry, rice and vegetables instead of whatever dish my parents would have picked out of the menu, probably thinking that I’d enjoy the change.
No one could cook like my grandmother, and I don’t think I’ll ever taste anything like her cooking.
And I don’t think that I’ll ever taste anything like that plate of curry and rice and vegetables.