Pelau

My mother claims she once had very pretty hands. Slim fingers and smooth knuckles, she insists. I don’t believe her, but I nod anyway. It is four o’clock in the afternoon. I am pulling vegetables out of the refrigerator and putting them on the counter next to the stove. I slip around her to wash them in the sink. She tells me that she is surprised I remembered to wash them, but she smiles as she says it. She likes having me with her while she cooks, as it makes the fluorescent kitchen less dismal. My father insists fluorescence makes for brighter light. I’m 12 years old and she’s teaching me how to make pelau, a Trinidadian rice dish, a sort of pilaf. That I listen seems to make her happy. She only talks to our dog, her plants, and occasionally her sister. She gets out the heavy cast iron pot from the back of the cupboard. I always wonder why she keeps it so tucked away in the far-to-reach corner of the cabinet. She pours in just enough oil to coat the base of the pot and turns on the stove. She squeezes a fistful of brown sugar in her hand, and then sprinkles it over the hot oil. She waits for the oil and sugar to thickly bubble. She stirs it quickly when it’s golden, and waits for the mixture to froth again. All she has goes in here—I see that now. We never said thank you, never do. She tells me I must always use a wooden spoon when cooking, and that metal spoons will leave a taste in my mouth and damage my pots. I tell her how I caught a butterfly in school the way daddy showed me, and that Rianna, the bossy girl in my class with the grown-up face, was picked as class prefect and told Mrs. Rosemary that I was talking when she left the room. My mother shakes her head and sucks in her cheeks. “I don’t like this Reshma girl. She sounding like she want to be a woman. Show me she next time. She sounding like she real obnoxious.” “Yes, yes.” I say. “She’s obnoxious and it wasn’t like I was the only one talking anyway. She just pick on me. I don’t know why, ‘cause I didn’t do she anything.” My mother pats my cheek, then moves to the pot and dumps in the chicken she seasoned the night before. The pot sizzles and I smell thyme, celery, cilantro, and caramelized sugar. She quickly stirs the meat and covers the pot so that the meat will get nice and brown. She always throws away the neck and feet and tells me that no child of hers would ever eat those parts. She sits across from me at the kitchen table, chopping bell peppers, carrots, and onions. I clumsily imitate her. She starts to tell me a story of a house party she and her sister had when they were younger, and how she used the brand name makeup she bought with her very first paycheck: Helena Rubenstein blush in a gold compact case. My mother’s stories are made up solely of beginnings. I wonder vaguely if she was hurt by the spiteful note I wrote her after being spanked saying that the stranger who called her beautiful and young was clearly mad or lying. We aren’t a family that apologizes. She starts peeling clove after clove of garlic, saying once again how every dish needs garlic. She shakes her head and tells me I should never get married …