A Collection of Stories

The Kitchen

The kitchen was the safest place to be. Nothing bad ever happened there. Why? Because it was sanctioned that way, that's why. And it was sanctioned that way because Papa was in it. Always. And I mean, he was always in the kitchen.

Sometimes I think Papa was born in the kitchen and was spicing up some savoury stew or shelling peas from the day great-grandmama Elise birthed him. But this was only a fantasy in my mind. Papa couldn't have always been in the kitchen because he only moved in with us three years ago and Daddy had built the house only a year before that.

But the kitchen was special because Papa was in it.

His banana nut bread diffused any tension between my sisters in an instant. Papa's curried chicken and white rice made our uncle Lewis the most agreeable man in the world. His conch fritters, and I mean loaded conch fritters with green, yellow, and red peppers, onions, celery, and his secret seasoning, eased our troubled minds each time an exam was due. His pea soup and dough brought him and Daddy closer, too. And together they'd travel down memory lane with us boys listening to old stories and silly jokes from when Daddy was our own age. Papa's butterfly lobster always brought a light to Mama's eyes when she's gloomy, and only his chicken soup encourages my baby brother to eat when he's sick in bed.

"So, what's so special about the kitchen?" you might ask. "I mean, obviously the old man is just a pretty decent cook, right? No biggie!"

No. You couldn't be more wrong.

There was something about Papa that rooted itself in our kitchen that teeth-chattering January evening. He had few belongings and Mommy and Daddy had disappeared down the hall to make sure his room was warm and ready. The moment they were out of sight, he gave us that old side smile and brought his finger to his lips. His dark, leathery hand dove into his oversized pocket, fishing about for something. He pulled out a jar of brown powder and we quietly and curiously examine the jar.

Papa leaned to me, giving my shoulder a squeeze, "Show Papa where the kitchen at, my boy."

He appraised the cooking area as a buyer would a house, nodding and grunting at things he approved of and shaking his head and clicking his tongue where he disapproved. The latter only happened twice. With some help from us, in our own clumsy way, he lay out sugar, salt, sweet milk, coconut milk, shredded coconut, and vanilla. We watched in soundless wonder as he set the coconut and sugar and a bit of water on the burner to boil, though the steps were quite simple, there was something about the way he did them which seemed to give the process a special or sacred interpretation. His secret jar was the centrepiece of this sweet occasion, despite being nothing more than dark powdered chocolate and a mixture of his personal spices. Our youthful souls savoured the moment he measured out a heaping spoonful of chocolate and added it to the pot. We held our breaths in anticipation as he threw in a dash of salt with a precise hand. We sucked in a greedy lungful of air once the vanilla safely kissed the bottom of the pot. Our stomachs jumped for joy as the world within our kitchen went in slow motion when the sweet milk and coconut milk were gently stirred into the steaming pot of riches.

When the chocolate finally ended up in our mugs, I saw Papa dressed in a flowing robe of orange with bold red trim along the hem and sleeves. Peppers of brilliant red, green and yellow adorned his neck while a turban of colourful fruits and vegetables glorified his bald head. From this wonderful crown dangled dry herbs, vanilla beans and other things I couldn't name. Tiny vials of ground spices adorned his forearms and wrists. The inner walls of his robes held smooth bottles of oil, each with its heritage labelled in bright print.

He smiled at us and waved his staff of hardened chocolate; the surrounding walls folded in, and I caught the fresh breath of distant lands, of places I'd never seen. There were boats in the distance and the faint taste of salt danced on my tongue as the fishermen came into view, their strong back heaving from the nets they drew from the water. Colourful fish flapped and flipped before me while the sun grinned at the mirror of the sea, his 1000-kilowatt smile drawing sweat from the men on the water.

The scene gently folded over and a handful of women formed a circle with mortar and pestles, grounding their herbs and spices. A hundred flavours tickled my taste buds and believe me when I say of them all, I could identify only five. They sat in the shade of the splaying leaves of coconut and palm trees. A cauldron-like pot sat over a fire wafting the air with mint's perfume. Younger women with babies strapped to their backs squatted peeling yams. A wiry girl with a gracious smile beckoned us to her, holding out a wooden spoon with a thick reddish-brown liquid. All at once, the bold and spicy stew rich with tender meat and potatoes scalded my tongue as I guzzled a mouthful of flavour. Before I could snatch the spoon from her thin hands, she disappeared like dust in the wind, and I stumbled down a steep hill of ripe green grass.

The earthy smell of dirt and everything green, young, and tender was quite the contrast to my previous surroundings. Papa sat in the distance among a crowd of stumbling toddlers and little kid goats and baby lambs. He served the babies some fragrant creamy liquid and, upon reaching him, he smiled fondly at me and handed me a wooden mug. The creamy, spiced milk cooled my burning tongue like ice water on a hot day, and fruity flavours of wild berries and bananas refreshed me. Papa patted my shoulder and tipping his hat at me and pinching the fat cheeks of one baby that had come up to him, he arose and walked off. Slowly I lowered myself to the cool grass, letting out a pleasant yawn and gazing peacefully at the plump and rosy children who surrounded me with flabby arms and dribbling mouths. I smiled and closed my eyes as the wind whistled gently, rustling the tall grass and cooed me to happy places...

"Looks like someone's tired," I heard Mommy's voice from the back of my consciousness and with a patient effort, I opened my eyes and found myself in the kitchen.

"You nearly fell asleep standing up," Daddy laughed, taking my empty mug.

"But I didn't fall asleep," I explained. "I was awake the whole time. I only closed my eyes."

Daddy laughed again and started taking my younger siblings, who looked about with drowsy eyes and a few yawns, to bed. After exchanging glances, I knew they'd seen it too.

There was no use explaining what we'd experienced because one way or the other, everyone witnessed it themselves; and when he smiled at me before my mother swept me off to bed, I knew one would only experience the magic when Papa was in the kitchen.