Sunlight blew past the window panes into each of the bedrooms below its ceiling. The fresh scent of morning work arose from the ground upwards through the vents. In every room, there was stirring as all the house's inhabitants pushed sight through their slumbering eyes to see what the day would behold.
"Whatch y'all wants for breakfast?"
"Catfish and Grits, Jyoti!!"
Okay, gets ya-selves tagetha, wash-up and come on out to da ketchen when ya done. I'll have breakfast ready directly.
The promise of that good 'ol southern delicacy reminded each person how hungry they really were. The stirring became more of a burr and the burr became chatter. As we all took our turns shuffling into the bathrooms to wash up, the smell of friend catfish edged its way from the kitchen to the rest of the house. Hmmmm. Feels just like home.
"How y'all wants y'all's eggs cooked??!!", Jyoti bellowed through the house.
"Scrambled?"
"Me too?"
"Over-easy?"
"Can I get mine with vegetables?"
The orders all marched through the kitchen entrance one by one.
As the last bit of lotion was wiped on to our faces, we slowly began our ascent toward the dining room table. It was already beginning to get full. Fruit Salad, Grits, whole wheat toast, grape juice, orange juice, catfish and finally the eggs.
In my mind, I knew I was awake, but I tried to wake up again, because this could only be a dream. Why was my apartment in India smelling like my Grandmother's house during Sunday breakfast before church? Why was Jyoti's heavily Hindi tongue sounding southern?
"Jyoti, can you bring out the hot sauce?" The last of the fixins' in place.
This was a treat in more ways than one. Nostalgia was being fed to me with a fork and knife and I could not help but enjoy the meal!!
posted by JayGee at 11/28/2006 01:19:00 PM
3 Comments:
You know it didn't happen like that. You ordered Jyoti to make some food and she did so without uttering a word. You then loudly rapped on our bedroom doors to awaken us. Tell it like it is, J!
As kids, there used to be this Looney Toons cartoon wherein a little boy would sit in class and daydream. The mundane would very quickly become this sensationalized story which had him in valorous situation becoming the hero. He had a vivid imagination. Invariably, the teacher would always snap him out of it, put a dunce-cap on his head and stand him in the corner.
I spoke to that kid a few weeks ago. He's now a prize-winning fiction writer. So now the question I ask you, Russatta, is would you prefer to put me in the corner with a dunce-cap rather than let me tell my stories, knowing that one day I hope to be a writer?
At least my story had a flow and everyone knows an Indian woman who has never left India couldn't sound southern; that makes my story ficticious, but telling. . .kind of like that book that guy wrote that got him in trouble with Oprah. Are you my Oprah?
Talk about embellishment, what loud rap did you hear at your bedroom door from me? By the time I woke up, you were already at my dining room table, sippin' on a 40 oz. from the bottle, scratching your belly and telling folks how good the food looked!! And yes I know it was grape juice and not a 40 oz., but I like my story better. :-)
Secretly, I'm just jealous that I'm not as creative and imaginative as you are. That's all.
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