In my kitchen at midnight
Meaning-making as an act of courage
In my kitchen at midnight…
In my kitchen at midnight
I coax chickpeas she demands,
the day before she arrives.
I know she likes them sour
and piquant, spicy and rich.
Lining spices, I carry
love, a heavy bottomed pot.
*
I roast anardana, zeera,
Tez patta, laung, amchur -- young
mangoes once, now powdered dry.
Peel and chop, ready flavors that
blossom over searing flame.
Onions divine tears in
eyes, a worthy camouflage.
*
Multitudes, distractions, calls
but this mastery I can’t fail.
No barter, no prestige, no
pay. Still, nothing can subdue
this potent preparation.
I’ve clasped glories from taller
vantages. None burned so close.
*
She’s in my kitchen. I read
more than hunger. She sees me
ladle caution as I serve,
Why’d you worry for me, Ma?
I laugh, not speak out loud, You’ll
know the day you’re disarmed by
a tiny, defenseless one…
-Reena | July 2023
*anardana, zeera, tez patta, laung, amchur - Indian spices as in (resp.) dried pomegranate seeds, cumin, bay leaf, clove, dried mango powder.
###
Yes, a poem about that elemental act of preparing a favorite food for loved ones…
I wrote this poem in a poetry workshop in immediate response to this prompt: in my kitchen at midnight… Yes, a poem about that elemental act of preparing a favorite food for loved ones. Specifically, a celebration of love for my daughter and the joy it evokes within, when she demands a specific chickpea dish; an Indian recipe, I’ll need to write down for her some day.
A basic, universal, rather ordinary act. Ordinary, but with the power to capture a world of meaning. One of meaning-making that’s fortunately easily available to me. But I don’t take the facility lightly. One, being no spring chicken - mother of a college grad and all - I know better, and two, I’m struck by how lost even the most advantaged among us are, in finding meaning in our daily pursuits.
This got me thinking: where, when and how do we find meaning?
Some of us are fortunate to be born into or land on a pursuit that is significant enough to turn into an all consuming calling. But for many, certainly for me, the path continues to be one of discovery and intention. Exhibit #1: the chickpeas!
Hubris fell before gustatory lust.
Despite the immediacy and the undeniability of the joy, and that I drop everything to indulge my daughter’s demand, the chickpeas bring up amusing reminders of my own history. I grew up in India in an era (70s/80s) of stultifying cultural prescription for women, and I resented the implication that regardless of whatever else I accomplished, my skills in the kitchen could not be compromised. So I refused to participate in that domain.
Until well, a lot of life happened. A hopelessly doomed foodie immigrant in grad school, left to her own rather meager devices, I found myself wanting to prepare the foods I craved. Hubris fell before gustatory lust. I wrote about my somewhat hilarious adventures, paralleling my immigrant ones, here and here.
Fortunately, life proceeded on mutually agreeable terms and many surface notions I’d taken as salient dissolved, leaving room for more deeply instinctual patterns to emerge. And now in my 50s, the determination to be more fully present for what’s meaningful regardless of childhood models, cultural mores or reactionary ideologies, has only grown more acute.
So I never fail to embrace as a gift, the simple ceremony of preparing, garnishing and ladling the chickpeas just the way my daughter loves it, because over that smacking of lips and pleasure sounds that emanate from her, over that quickly vanishing pot of chickpeas so much else burgeons, so much is shared, revealed, even confessed, that it becomes a precious family connection ritual in itself.
This particular anecdote isn’t of course a prescription for returning women — or men — to the kitchen. Instead, it’s a simple recognition of two happy facts: one that the smallest of our pursuits may be imbued with meaning, and two that each of us is in charge of such assignation for ourselves.
Meaning seems to reside in that liminal interaction between an objective reality, and how we choose to relate with it…
For example, haven’t we all met people in vocations that we imagine are “beneath” us (Oh, I could never do that job) but who leave us in awe of the conscientiousness and attention with which they conduct themselves? The whole notion of taking pride in work seems to me to be a kind of meaning-making stemming from the singularity of our attention itself. Or take parents of children with struggles, who show up with consistent courage and intention. Or people struck by horrific tragedy who find deep purpose in a life of service. In contrast, I once watched in disappointment a supremely gifted dancer perform with an entire lack of gaiety. She found no meaning in her gift, leaving admirers, like me, cold.
I think of meaning-making as an act of courage — despite our assured mortality, despite an unsympathetic universe, and against our penchant for nihilism…
So meaning, where art thou?
Meaning seems to reside in that liminal interaction between an objective reality, and how we choose to relate to it. It’s that nebulous expanse where life hands us “the usual” — even the unwanted — and we find within that, possibilities for our ennoblement, a vision or message we choose to imbibe, to construct the purpose we must have in order to thrive, not just survive. No lofty outcomes demanded, but a recognition of our majestic ability to show up with grace for even ostensibly small or difficult matters.
This is why I think of meaning-making as an act of courage — despite our assured mortality, despite an unsympathetic universe, and against our penchant for nihilism. Listening to what and who we love, a commitment to go deeper in intentional contemplation and an enthusiasm to cherish the little moments that life is made up of, can get us there. Tiny moments universally available then become vital to our happiness.
Yet somehow, the world over, we seem more lost than ever. Some of it relates to our veritable rejection of religion. A lot, I think, is also related to looking for meaning in the wrong places. We chase all sorts of symbols, memes, reflections, and fuzzy simulacrums of — but not — the real thing. And in a world saturated with social media prestige and status, and adulation of hordes who eventually mean nothing to us, it’s easy to believe that’s what matters. But such appetites are both shallow and insatiable, feeding on empty calories that miss the nutrient dense stuff, easily available to us if we only look a little closer. It's often the stuff that goes missing closer to home.
I don’t mean this as some sort of simplistic call to abandon ambition or worldly concerns. Simply, to not confuse “busyness” and its external rewards with fulfillment. Instead, to intentionally contemplate what and why we’re chasing/ choosing and what we’re sacrificing. And commit to cherishing the tiny stuff — such as sharing a meal with loved ones before working on that Monday morning slide deck.
This poem is then a celebration of both the act itself, and the realization that such meaning-making is right here for those who’re willing to grab it.
Extra!
A few books - on very different themes - that I’ve loved on how and where people (can) find meaning, despite unimaginable odds:
Stumbling on Happiness by Daniel Todd Gilbert
Far from the Tree: Parents, Children and the Search for Identity by Andrew Solomon.
And of course the timeless classic Man's Search for Meaning (1946) by Viktor Frankl chronicling his experiences as a prisoner in Nazi concentration camps during World War II.
Let’s chat, shall we?
Did this exploration resonate, make sense? What did I miss?
Which “ordinary” acts do you find meaning in?
Are there investments of time and energies that you’d like to make differently in your search? How so?
Loved it! Often times we miss what is right under our noses and look for methods and meaning far away
Beautiful poem Reena. A lot of meaning in a few words. Cooking means much more than just cutting, chopping, stirring etc. Your poem conveys that beautifully.