Garlic Cloves

With the flat of her knife, she crushes a few garlic cloves and peels the stubborn skins. She chops them with a steady beat, a rhythm, and scrapes them onto the side of a plate with the chopped broccoli, diced onions and all the other ingredients for the feast.

It has been a while since she was back in her parent's kitchen cooking proper meals. but cooking to her, is like riding a bicycle. Once you learn, you never really forget. Her hands have not forgotten to slice, to chop, to fry, to stir. And her tongue has not forgotten the salty, the sour, the sweet, and the bitter. She starts out awkwardly, pulling open cabinets and drawers to look for the right utensils. There is only a small space for her to work with and she regrets not using her other kitchens from her temporary houses to its full potential. She couldn't remember turning on the oven in her house at Italy. Despite the space and her rusty skills, she is determined to cook the best meal.

The fridge overflows with the fresh produce she and her mother bought earlier in the morning. She watches as her mother bargained with a balding man for a kilogram of potatoes. She has never had the confidence to haggle for prices. It was unfortunate that that set of skill did not pass down to her.

The kitchen feels hotter than when she first started as water in a pot boils, the oven is almost done preheating, and the rest of the three stove tops all have various pans on them. She thought of making a simple meal, but it is much more impressive if she could make a dish inspired by the countries she visited. So, she spends longer than usual preparing her ingredients and finally, after multiple rounds of rinsing and chopping. She is ready to cook.

She begins by throwing in a bit of chopped garlic into a pan of hot olive oil. Immediately, the scent of garlic wafts into the air and engulfs her. It stains her fingertips, it sticks to the side of her knife. It was everywhere. She loses herself into the momentum of it all, making sure to keep an eye on all of the pans. A fear creeps into her mind. This is the first meal she will have with her family since she left four years ago. There is bound to be a gap between them, as if all the places she set foot on and all their culture wedges itself in between her and her family. What if they didn't like her Aglio E Olio? Maybe she should have gone with her mother's stir fried beans and minced pork dish. Is her green curry too bland for her father's taste? She tells herself to stop and just focus for she knows that her worries would seep into the food.

Her mother comes and squeezes her shoulder.

"That smells good, lots of garlic," she says as she watches the prawn sizzle in the pan. "Dad would love this too."

"I do hope so," her voice so soft that the omnipresent noise of the exhaust threatens to cover it.

"We will. Don't worry," her mother pauses. "It's good to have you back, it's good to have you eating with us again."

Her mother pats her on the back and she is left alone with the smell of garlic. And she realises something funny. Somehow, in every dish she makes, despite it being from a different culture, there are bits and pieces of garlic in them. It unites the dishes without making them lose their unique taste. She finishes her dishes and serves them. Her family sits around a round table and begins to dig in. They talk as if four years had not passed, like there has always been a bridge across the gap. They say she speaks differently now, but they do not make fun nor insult. They are interested in it. Like the garlic that unites all the different cuisines, she feels a sense of unity, a sense of home, and belonging just by the simple act of having a meal in a round table, together.