His Kitchen, Finally

Journal

Dad never let anyone else touch the tadka.

The spices were his. The timing was his. The kitchen was a kingdom.

I already knew the answer.

Last Sunday he sat in the chair by the window and pointed.

"You do it. I'm watching."

The oil was already hot.

I burned the first mustard seeds.

He laughed, which he almost never does.

I tried again, slower.

When the dal was right, he ate a spoonful and nodded once.

In our house, that nod is a parade.

I sat down across from him.

He asked for a second bowl.

I pretended not to notice my hands shaking.

Tomorrow he wants me to do the rice.

I already measured the water in the pot, just in case.