we all have a hunger (Calla)
Jun 24, 2018 17:07:05 GMT -5
Post by ryan on Jun 24, 2018 17:07:05 GMT -5
His home was always in the kitchen.
Not because he needed to be there, or even wanted to be there, but because he had to be there.
Most of the time, he got lost in the recipes that his mother gave him to work with.
Words blended into sentences, pictures became surreal, and no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t quite capture the essence of the food that his mother used to make when he was young.
He wasn’t supposed to though anyway, because at the end of the day his mothers recipes were not meant to be recreated by someone who was simply an amateur.
No.
The only person that could make anything his mom made better would be her mom, seeing as they were handed down generation to generation.
Sometimes he felt like it was because he didn’t have the right touch like his mother did.
And sometimes he felt like it was because he would never be able to do what his mother did.
Because what she did was out of love. Out of protection for the family.
The time she spent in the kitchen made the time he spent in the kitchen look silly.
But still, he gave it his best shot, because that was the least he could do.
And this recipe was easy.
A pie, filled with apples and berries.
With a flick of his wrist, he chopped apples finely as he started to make a fruit compote by hand. He blended together flour that he bought from a girl in the market that gave him extra because she thought he was cute.
Eggs from the animals that they had left on the farm.
Beaten furiously as he added milk, fresh from one of the few cows they had left.
A blended ball of dough, wrapped for an hour to let it rise.
He picked up another recipe in the hopes to start memorizing it.
He got about half way down before he realized that it was time to make the crust.
He pressed it firmly around the pan, holding it down like he did all the time when his mother wasn’t home.
Place the filling in and over the fire it goes.
His hands worked needlessly, trying to perfect it
Because at the end of the day, he already knew that it wasn’t never going to be like his mothers.
But that didn’t stop him from trying.
Smells filled the house, and while he knew that it probably had a long way to go, that didn’t stop him from checking on it frequently.
Every time he thought about the pie, he would freak out slightly. He wished he didn’t worry too much, but that was all he did when he was working on his art.
He checked it multiple times in the time it needed to bake, and when he finished it, he pulled it off the fire, leaving on the kitchen counter to rest for the time being.
With a knife, he poked it slightly, checking to make sure that the filling was cooked all the way through.
With a clean knife coming out, he realized that he might have finally done it.
And his smile grew miles wide.
He moved from the counter to the windowsill, leaving it to cool as he began to wash dishes.
Waiting for his mother to come home to see for herself.
