Breakfast

My ammi watches over my shoulder as I grab the Purple Heart colored pencil from the pencil holder that I keep the 150 pack of colored pencils I got for my 5th birthday in March earlier this year in and add my finishing touches to the scene depicted in front of me of a dense jungle with beguiling plants that coil like 3-D projections of the seashells that my dad brought back from his work trip to the Pacific coast last week. A juice-filled sac, the same shade of red as rotting grapes, had formed on the outside of my pinky from the pressure I had been exerting on it, but I don’t mind, I see it as a fruit of my labor.

She asks, “Lut, what would you like for breakfast?”

My stomach grumbles as I think of the lemony tang of Pulihara or the sweet flirtation that Amm Raas incites, but I ultimately decide on, “Chole Puri, please,” then remembering that I am grown up and beginning kindergarten in a couple of months, nervously add in, “Could I help you?”

My ammi thinks for a few moments, closing her eyes, feeling the wind coming in from the small window above the sink that overlooks the yard, and taking in the sweet, subtle scent of the perennial flowers she planted outside when my parents first moved here. Finally, after a few moments of deliberation, with her eyes focused on the outside foliage, she says, “Of course you can meri jaan; you can start by filling the water fountain for the birds."

What she means by water fountain is a large plastic bowl meant for punch at parties from the Dollar Mart that looks as if it's straining, about to crack, anytime it is filled with water.

I said, “Okay, but I meant with the food.”

She replies, “Your life is only as good as your environment, be good to the birds, the rabbits, the trees, and the world around you, and Allah Miya will make sure that they don’t testify against you on The Day of Recompense; so go, go bless the birds, so our food will be blessed.”

Of course, her wisdom is superior to mine, so I get the maroon, which looks more like brown at this point, watering pot from the patio, go to the bathroom sink, press my abdomen as far into the china it will go so that I can reach the faucet, and fill it up.

Just as I step outside, I see a red cardinal at my neighbor’s bird feeder and rush to rinse and fill the bowl, for the birds, my neighbor, and my mom have an unspoken agreement that my neighbor’s house is for food and ours for post-meal hydration.

As I finish filling the water, I hear a shout: “Grab a handful of mint too, while you are out there."

So I go to the side of the house, where we have small mint plants lined up in a disorganized array so that the soil is invisible under the green. Afraid of any snakes, bugs, or scary things hiding in the undergrowth, I quickly peel off leaves, taking care not to uproot any plants, and fill my palm with the coolness of the herb.

On my return to the patio door, I notice that a vibrant, yellow tulip has broken out of its bud and grown into a plant, so I pull that out to bring it in as well.

I walk in from my expedition, the tiles of the kitchen a respite to the uneven terrain outside, and hand my Ammi the mint and tulips.

She gently says, “Thank you, but the flowers are for outside, we have no use for them here, but it’s beautiful,” and puts the flower in the crevice between the top of her ear and head.

I say, “Oh, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again.”

“Don’t be sorry, you little monkey, now come here and help me with the food.”

I go over to the countertop area next to the stove, where she has set up camp, but realize it is too tall for me. I grab my white stool splattered with paint marks from my room and come back down. I set the stool down and ask, “What should I do?”

“Roll,” as I am handed a very heavy dough roller with tape between the smooth, small handles that fit perfectly in my fist and the textured, thick wood that is the conduit for the metamorphosis of a blob of water and flour into an oily, crispy, but soft, orb of deliciousness. Set in front of me, the sticky dough doesn’t undergo any transformation, no matter how hard or in which direction I move it.

Ammi comes over and says, “The belan is an extension of you, move as if you yourself are conquering and flattening the world in front of you,” as she puts her hands around mine and presses firmly and methodically into the dough until it becomes a perfect circle.

“Now, by yourself.”

Imagining her presence gave me strength and experience, and although I could not make a perfect circle, I was content with my oval.

“One for you and for me,” I tell her.

She laughs and says, "You are a growing boy, Lut, you need at least 3, and I would like at least 2,” and watches as I slowly prepare 3 more puris that more or less look the same as my oval.

“The tortilla oven gets hot, and I don’t want you to hurt yourself, but you can watch.”

I watch as Ammi takes the dough and flattens it further into a paper-thin layer with a tortilla presser, before placing it on the stove to cook in the kadhai. As this is going on, the pressure cooker abruptly lets out three whistles, signaling that the chole are cooked into soft, flavorful pieces of chickpeas, and ready to be adorned with beads of vegetables and fragrant citrusy oils.

“Next, roll those limes to soften them for me while I cut us some onions, cilantro, and tomatoes.”

The limes feel oily and sticky under my fingers, so to minimize time with them and still finish my duty, I try to juggle them around, squeezing them hard with each catch, but they kept falling on the floor. Eventually, I adhere to the given directions and push hard against the granite countertop, keeping my momentum parallel to the surface, and getting the limes to the desired softness.

I watch my mom cut the last waxy, white onion into small cubes, arranged in columns that look like a stack of blocks ready to topple over. She finishes cutting her vegetables and grabs the finished puris, which have expanded into airy spheres, shining like myrrh embellishes its golden exterior. The chole’s distinct, earthy aroma begins to fill the air, making my stomach grumble.

“Go set the table, while I put the food in dishes.”

I place two salmon placemats, grab two plates, white, adorned with periwinkle flowers and dots around the borders, one plastic cup that changes color depending on temperature, one glass cup, a water jug from the fridge, and sit down, awaiting my meal. Ammi comes before I can ask how much longer until food is ready and sets down an insulated, plastic box decorated with flowers to keep the puris warm, a serving bowl with chole inside, and a saucer with the cut vegetables.

She scoops a spoonful of chole onto my plate with extra gravy, adds a layer of onions, cilantro, and tomatoes on top, and squeezes a lemon and its pulp on top like rain, preparing the soil and crops for use, and hands me a hot puri that bends and crunches under my grip.

“Lut, the work is now done, say Bismillah and enjoy.”

I hold the puri against the plate with my middle finger and use my index and thumb to break off a small piece. Without scooping chole, I place the piece in my mouth with my right hand, close my eyes, and bite. I feel the initial crunch and taste the strong wheat flavor, then bite again, this time experiencing the softer, moister interior of the puri that has a slightly nutty aftertaste to it, and continue to chew slowly until all that is left are small flakes. I break off another piece. This time, I make sure to use my puri like a pair of oven mitts, cloaking the chole and its contents under my makeshift umbrella and guiding it to my mouth. The mosaic of textures and flavors, with the crunch of the onions and the soft firmness of the chole, and the spiceful, savory of the chole, complemented with the subtle tartness of the lime, feels like a big bang of piquancy in my mouth, and breeds a fervor to chew faster so that I can eat more.

Ammi sees this and tells me to “Lut. Chew slowly; you’ll choke on the food. Food is made to enjoy, not to overindulge.”

“I’m just a fast eater,” I protest, but slow down just a little bit,

As I finish my last puri, the rhythmic beep that signals the oven is done begins. Not recalling either of us opening the oven this morning, I ask, “Did you accidentally turn the oven on?”

Without replying, Ammi gets up, wraps a towel under her right hand, opens the oven, and pulls out a baking tray, “Surprise! I made your favorite mint chocolate cookies while you were outside and setting the table to reward you for your hard work. But wait. Before you eat, smell your fingers. Remember the smell, this moment, so that if you ever feel lost, you can remember how home feels.

I move the palm of my hand up to my nose, working my way up to my fingers where the smell is strongest, and breathe in the fragrance of my morning. The spices of the chole and the slightly bitter, citrusy notes of lime took over, followed by hints of sharp but floral jasmine from the soap I had been using throughout the day, which did its best to but could not completely mask the coolness of the mint plant and the distinct woody smell of pencils.

***

The Caretaker watched Lut, his eyes unopened for the last couple of weeks, as he oscillated his long, skinny fingers slowly back and forth in an exceedingly upward direction. His long, striated nails were just a little too overgrown and looked taped on to the pale-brown skin that hugged his bones and knuckles. After a couple of cycles, his index finger reached his nose, and he took a deep breath in. As he inhaled, the hints of a faint smile appeared at his lips; he looked as if he was savoring a moment, an hour, a year, a life, 87 and a half years of life. The Caretaker wondered what interactions were occurring in Lut’s brain between his limbic system and olfactory bulbs, what the sensory nerves on his fingers were trying to feel, if he could hear, and whether his photoreceptors would ever see light again. Almost as if responding to The Caretaker’s thoughts, Lut let out a whistle-like stream of exhaled air, opened his eyes into a rightward omniscient glance into a yard where birds drank from a faded, flowery plastic bowl and baby rabbits nibbled warily at yellow buds under the watch of their mother, and the cardiac monitor began its rhythmic beep.