The Somali Child

Delight

This is a short story about my mother's cooking.

Delight is the smell and taste of my mother's cooking.

When I fell ill, her chicken maraaq would soothe me. Large bowls of scorching hot soup would be presented to me by my mother. Bulky chunks of meat would swirl around the bowl with a venerable majesty. Small pieces of diced potatoes and carrots bobbed along the surface of the soup like abandoned buoys. As I held the steaming spoon to my mouth, I ceremoniously blew at it to cool it down.

To many cynics, including my friend Rashidah,  this infatuation with my mother's cooking may have seemed like childish hyperbole when I declared

''My mom's cooking is the best in the whole wide world'', but to me this was reality.

I can vividly remember coming home from a long day at school to the smell of my mother's aromatic cooking. She would always have the kitchen window open, as if to entice me even further.

The pungent odour danced inside my nostrils like impish sprites. The smells of cumin, coriander, turmeric and many more unnameable spices filled  my front garden and  lingered  into the street. It transported me to the land of my forefathers, far, far away from Highfields.  Magical places which I had never been, but yearned to visit.

Such smells were not unfamiliar in my neighbourhood.  The smells of our neighbour Mrs Johnsons jerk chicken and Rashidah's mums curry also filled the unassuming British air.

''Ladan bitha'', Rashidah's mum called out to me in her thick Bangladeshi accent, ''Give this to your mother for me.'' She extended  a plate of piping hot samosas religiously wrapped in cling film . ''Say hello to her for me, '' she continued.

''Thanks Mrs. Mirza, will do!'' I replied hastily.

As I clambered to get inside the house, anticipation of the feast that lay ahead made my mouth water.

''Hi Hooyo!'' I called out to my mother, who was  frantically cooking in the kitchen, her face dripping  in sweat. I handed her Rashidah's mums samosas and  gave her a hug, whilst also simultaneously peering to see if she had made basto or baaris with maaraq.  I would have been content with either one, but I was delighted that it was baaris, my favourite!

''Get out the kitchen!'' my mother commanded, ''and go set up the table!'' I willingly obliged, as I was convinced that my efforts would result in a larger portion.

As I was setting  the table I could hear the chattering sounds of my younger sister Yasmin and my brother Elias, filling  the house, and the chronological thump of school bags being  dumped on the floor by my equally zealous siblings. 

The boisterous atmosphere before  dinner in my household may have been chaotic, but I would not have it any other way. This chaos was slightly quelled by my father's stern command for us to wash our hands, which we did without protest. When we finally sat down at the table to eat, I abandoned any manners  and  proceeded to devour my feast. We would all sense of decorum .

''Use your spoon Kuuso,'' my mother commanded, with  an annoyed expression on her face.

''You're eating like a pig!'' she continued, simultaneously shaking her head in disgust.