Her hair, short and wavy, had a distinctive streak of red that stood out from what was more or less jet black.
She spoke ever so gently for a woman who ran a house where men were loud and demanding, but not in the rude sense. She was the true lady amongst burly men. I admired her for it.
She is the mother of the man who had no curtains. The man in the uniform that smelled of Hugo Boss. I wanted her desperately to like me as much as I liked her.
Graceful and methodical, I loved watching her cook when I came to visit. We often cooked together but it took some time to earn my spot in her domain. By observing her I learned a lot about Glady and her kitchen ways.
Her hands we steady and gentle as she peeled onions, slicing them with a small pairing knife with a plastic red handle. She sniffled as she cut as the pungent scent rose to her eyes and caused her to tear up.
She crushed black pepper corns in a tiny mortar and pestle. I remember asking her why not buy the ground up pepper corns? Or a pepper grinder? She would grin a toothy smile and say "I don't know, I just have come used to doing it this way,"
She smiles a lot. Especially when cooking. I don't know if she ever noticed it but she really loses herself to the pot. Much like myself. I think that's why we clicked.
Easter was a festive time with robust aromas of Mangalorean delights, sanas, sorpatel, daals, her famous biryani that the Captain would insist she make extra of in order to take back home to Ottawa. Mango mousse, vorn, and kheer. Sometimes she'd bring out an industrial sized tub of ice cream and fruit cocktail. But my simple favourite...her beetroot salad.
To this day, I cannot eat a ruby red beet without thinking of her. I remember the day I watched her make it. Sunday afternoon, she had rushed back from church to finish up the fine details of her Easter feast.
I didn't knock. I didn't have to anymore.We were happy friends. Neighbours who just have passed all the formalities and grown to understand one another.
"Happy Easter, Aunty" as I double kissed her cheeks. Her face was soft and fair. I hope my skin stays so soft when I reach her age, I thought to myself.
"Happy Easter!" she returned, again a jolly smile, an endearing gap between her teeth that trademarked her expression. The one and only..."Glady."
She had sliced red onions wafer thin. Fuchsia ribbons lay scattered on an unusually small cutter board. I offered to help, and she nodded an okay in my direction without looking up. I realized why, as I looked down at her hands as she carefully dissected green chillies.
Emerald discs, some with seeds, and some without, landed in a while porcelain serving bowl, with blue flowers around the rim. She was expecting any number of guests. Her door and her kitchen was always open. So today her bowls were bottomless, and that's what made her dinners more than just dinners...they were experiences.
She handed me cucumbers in a clear plastic bag and showed me a sample of how she'd like it cut. I repeated the motion with speed and accuracy only a well versed kitchen professional would feel confident to do so.
"Ah-ray! So fast you have cut!" She proclaimed. As she continued with her chilli surgery.
She directed me to add the half mooned slices of cucumber into the bowl, then came the onions.
Next was a fist full of coriander. I guessed during that time, she easily when through 2 bunches a week, if not more. She put it in everything. Literally. I appreciated her confidence that cilantro belonged in just about any dish, even though it may not have been the ideal choice.
In this case, it made sense.
Finally, the jewels of the show. The star of the bowl. The bloody red-purple rouge that were her beetroots. At this time, I wasn't sure about my opinion of the vegetable. Being Guyanese, it was never part of my diet. But I was happy to try. Always.
She put on gloves to prevent her light skin from turning stained. She was expecting guests after all. Slowly and steadily in true Glady style she peeled her cooled beetroots and cut them into manageable wedges. As they tumbled into the white bowl with flowers, she handed me a large serving spoon to toss the edible variables together.
The verdant greens of coriander and cucumber, slithers of white and burgundy from savory onions and the shocking Scarlett of beets danced around in the alabaster vessel.
I swirled and she dressed with sour lime juice, splash of vinegar and oil.
She tipped salt into her palm and seasoned carefully. Her hand-crushed pepper corns followed.
"Let it be, once people come, I will take it all out for serving." she instructed.
She never tasted. She just knew.
Soon the red brick house was full. Chattering and laughing. The 'kids' sat around the television set debating what show to watch or to play a movie. The adults talked in Konkani about home, people who they've seen or not seen in some time.
Glady could command a house with a few simple words. So rallying everyone to the alter for prayer was no challenge for her. She almost always led the prayer, but her sister's voice was much more dominating. I would listen keenly, their voices in unison, alto and soprano. They gelled like sisters are supposed to, complimenting their intonations perfectly. Neither one would lose the pace as the Lords Prayer was recited. Not too fast or too slow. They were in sync. I could even count the beats between verses. To me, it sounded it exquisite.
Without a moment's delay, pot covers opened, plastic wrap with peeled away and a queue of hungry family members shuffled along with serving spoons and disposable wares.
It was like a delectable punch in the jaw. Her dishes were always successful, at least to me they were. The masalas were complex, the seasoning well balanced, and her variety was bountiful. Her flavours were big and the pride she took in cooking and serving was bigger.
It was then after my second serving of beetroot salad I realized something incredible special about this woman everyone called Glady...something that made me love her and thought of her like my mother...
She's steeped in tradition, yet open to possibilities.
She never cooked for herself, she cooked to share to others.
She ground her pepper corns, she added coriander in everything because she was more than just accustomed to it, she just loved doing it. And when you love something so much, it becomes necessary and impossible to alter.
I more than admired her, I felt I could be her in some way. Someone my family would revere and respect for the simplest act...
Open home
Open kitchen
Open pots
Open heart
This is for you, Glady...
With all my love,
A Girl Who Likes to Cook
She spoke ever so gently for a woman who ran a house where men were loud and demanding, but not in the rude sense. She was the true lady amongst burly men. I admired her for it.
She is the mother of the man who had no curtains. The man in the uniform that smelled of Hugo Boss. I wanted her desperately to like me as much as I liked her.
Graceful and methodical, I loved watching her cook when I came to visit. We often cooked together but it took some time to earn my spot in her domain. By observing her I learned a lot about Glady and her kitchen ways.
Her hands we steady and gentle as she peeled onions, slicing them with a small pairing knife with a plastic red handle. She sniffled as she cut as the pungent scent rose to her eyes and caused her to tear up.
She crushed black pepper corns in a tiny mortar and pestle. I remember asking her why not buy the ground up pepper corns? Or a pepper grinder? She would grin a toothy smile and say "I don't know, I just have come used to doing it this way,"
She smiles a lot. Especially when cooking. I don't know if she ever noticed it but she really loses herself to the pot. Much like myself. I think that's why we clicked.
Easter was a festive time with robust aromas of Mangalorean delights, sanas, sorpatel, daals, her famous biryani that the Captain would insist she make extra of in order to take back home to Ottawa. Mango mousse, vorn, and kheer. Sometimes she'd bring out an industrial sized tub of ice cream and fruit cocktail. But my simple favourite...her beetroot salad.
To this day, I cannot eat a ruby red beet without thinking of her. I remember the day I watched her make it. Sunday afternoon, she had rushed back from church to finish up the fine details of her Easter feast.
I didn't knock. I didn't have to anymore.We were happy friends. Neighbours who just have passed all the formalities and grown to understand one another.
"Happy Easter, Aunty" as I double kissed her cheeks. Her face was soft and fair. I hope my skin stays so soft when I reach her age, I thought to myself.
"Happy Easter!" she returned, again a jolly smile, an endearing gap between her teeth that trademarked her expression. The one and only..."Glady."
She had sliced red onions wafer thin. Fuchsia ribbons lay scattered on an unusually small cutter board. I offered to help, and she nodded an okay in my direction without looking up. I realized why, as I looked down at her hands as she carefully dissected green chillies.
Emerald discs, some with seeds, and some without, landed in a while porcelain serving bowl, with blue flowers around the rim. She was expecting any number of guests. Her door and her kitchen was always open. So today her bowls were bottomless, and that's what made her dinners more than just dinners...they were experiences.
She handed me cucumbers in a clear plastic bag and showed me a sample of how she'd like it cut. I repeated the motion with speed and accuracy only a well versed kitchen professional would feel confident to do so.
"Ah-ray! So fast you have cut!" She proclaimed. As she continued with her chilli surgery.
She directed me to add the half mooned slices of cucumber into the bowl, then came the onions.
Next was a fist full of coriander. I guessed during that time, she easily when through 2 bunches a week, if not more. She put it in everything. Literally. I appreciated her confidence that cilantro belonged in just about any dish, even though it may not have been the ideal choice.
In this case, it made sense.
Finally, the jewels of the show. The star of the bowl. The bloody red-purple rouge that were her beetroots. At this time, I wasn't sure about my opinion of the vegetable. Being Guyanese, it was never part of my diet. But I was happy to try. Always.
She put on gloves to prevent her light skin from turning stained. She was expecting guests after all. Slowly and steadily in true Glady style she peeled her cooled beetroots and cut them into manageable wedges. As they tumbled into the white bowl with flowers, she handed me a large serving spoon to toss the edible variables together.
The verdant greens of coriander and cucumber, slithers of white and burgundy from savory onions and the shocking Scarlett of beets danced around in the alabaster vessel.
I swirled and she dressed with sour lime juice, splash of vinegar and oil.
She tipped salt into her palm and seasoned carefully. Her hand-crushed pepper corns followed.
"Let it be, once people come, I will take it all out for serving." she instructed.
She never tasted. She just knew.
Soon the red brick house was full. Chattering and laughing. The 'kids' sat around the television set debating what show to watch or to play a movie. The adults talked in Konkani about home, people who they've seen or not seen in some time.
Glady could command a house with a few simple words. So rallying everyone to the alter for prayer was no challenge for her. She almost always led the prayer, but her sister's voice was much more dominating. I would listen keenly, their voices in unison, alto and soprano. They gelled like sisters are supposed to, complimenting their intonations perfectly. Neither one would lose the pace as the Lords Prayer was recited. Not too fast or too slow. They were in sync. I could even count the beats between verses. To me, it sounded it exquisite.
Without a moment's delay, pot covers opened, plastic wrap with peeled away and a queue of hungry family members shuffled along with serving spoons and disposable wares.
It was like a delectable punch in the jaw. Her dishes were always successful, at least to me they were. The masalas were complex, the seasoning well balanced, and her variety was bountiful. Her flavours were big and the pride she took in cooking and serving was bigger.
It was then after my second serving of beetroot salad I realized something incredible special about this woman everyone called Glady...something that made me love her and thought of her like my mother...
She's steeped in tradition, yet open to possibilities.
She never cooked for herself, she cooked to share to others.
She ground her pepper corns, she added coriander in everything because she was more than just accustomed to it, she just loved doing it. And when you love something so much, it becomes necessary and impossible to alter.
I more than admired her, I felt I could be her in some way. Someone my family would revere and respect for the simplest act...
Open home
Open kitchen
Open pots
Open heart
This is for you, Glady...
With all my love,
A Girl Who Likes to Cook
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