Georgetown Mornings

The distinctive chime of a bicycle bell. A rap on the door. 
My eyes stare up at the rickety ceiling fan spinning slowly as if to make the room warmer before getting cooler.

Sssss click sssss click.

It turns and whirls in its turquoise glory pushing the cob webs in the corners aside with its less than adequate breeze.

My toes stick to the freshly mopped hard wood floor as I creep to the edge of the kitchen where Nanny, my grandmother, stood.

She swats the fruit flies away from sliced pink guava gleaming on the windowsill.

"Milk man here! Edward, take the change from the table we need 3 bottles for today!" Her raspy voice calls out the window down to the courtyard.

Sweet onions sizzle and a chopped tomato hisses as it hits the skillet.

The tapping of eggs as if they're dancing in a boiling watery bath, 
Doing a jig at the bottom of an aluminium pot.

The smell of bread being toasted over the stove top and the sizzle of butter in a scorching warped frying pan.

She glances in my direction to catch me peaking around the corner, rubbing sleep from my eyes and yawning a gulp of morning air into my lungs. Shy me...my face grows warm and I try to make a mad dash.

But she scoops me up and kisses my face.

"You're the first and that's why you get the most love" my Nanny says as she sits me on counter top.  Her touches of grey hair around her temples fade to black with her neatly tied up-do.  Her frock, navy blue with small pink flowers, feels silky as I thumb the corner of her sleeve.  She cuts slices of cheese and lays them on the china plate next to the saltine crackers slathered with rich butter so yellow it reminds me of Big Bird's feathers.

I wiggle my bottom to the edge and leap hoping my acrobatics would impress her. Not to mention my stunning Care Bear pj's were also quite impressive.

I hear mom stirring in the living room with her sisters. Dad sits at the long cherry wood dining table, flipping through the local newspaper, shaking his head and furrowing his eyebrows.

Nanny misses my dismount and I land with a thud. She turns and I make my escape. My feet grip the sea foam green kitchen tiles as I collide into him.

The smell of Old Spice Aftershave fills my nose and I throw my arms around Nana's burly neck. Once again I'm mid-air in his arms. Swinging me, twirling me as I giggle. A dignified man he was.  Serious yet silly.  His tickles would bring me close to suffocation...death by laughter.

In his pocket he carried a single tiny notebook, wrapped with multi-coloured rubber bands and a pencil. I always wondered what so important in that little book that it needed to be held so tightly with elastics. Next to that was a small comb, in case of a hair emergency.  For a man his size, he dressed to impress. Platinum white hair with a touch of noir slicked in place strand by strand. Important business for an important man.

Tea simmers away and boiled eggs are peeled. The kitchen overflows with the scent of something growing crispy and golden. I can smell how deliciously brown its becoming. She lines up dish after dish, and the aroma floats through the house.  All 4 of my uncles rumble up the stairs passing mom, highly focused on the delicious presentation steaming away at the table.
                    

But my grandfather, Mr. Oscar, The Boss...whom I called Nana, carries me away in my laughing state to the veranda.

The clip clop of hooves, the smell of diesel in the open air. Palm trees peak over terra cotta roofs and in the distance I see Edward carrying a sack of rice on his head and a bucket of blue crabs in his hand.

Nana made me a special bench that I sat on as we watched together; a Georgetown morning come to life.

I was the first one after all. A seat that's just for me.

Then appeared a mystery.

A bowl. A stainless steel one polished to shine and entice.

"Eh boss! Boss! Where we keep de 3/4 inch bolts? I find de nut dem but no bolts!"

The voice of Uncle Tarquin echoed up to him over the concrete.

"Check the back store room!"

The banter over and under the veranda still didn't get me to take my eyes off that bowl he held so firmly in his hands. His fingers were chubby, I looked at mine, tiny and pale.

What's in it? Is it for me? What could it be?

He sits in his wicker chair as if it were a throne and he like a King. His hard hands grip mine with grace and finally I managed to sneak a peak...the contents of this mysterious bowl.

"Come. Let me show you how to eat and enjoy!" He bellows in his deep voice.

There they were, mangoes small and leathery. With beauty marks of black and rosy pink cheeks.

He placed the ripe fruit in my hands, as he held one of his own.

"Do like what I do," he said.  Holding the mango and bringing it to his lips. He bit a hole into the greenish yellow flesh and tore it with his mouth.  I did the same and the bitter skin left a tingle on my tongue.

Slowly he tore the skin with his fingers, "But don't pull it all off, leave enough to hold, baby..."

The smell was rich and sweet. As florescent orange as the sun, the daunting task of eating this mango is too complicated. How? Where do I start?

He smiles, then laughs! His belly shakes as he shows his toothy grin from ear to ear. He watches on in amusement. Blushing again, I wipe my face with the back of my arm as the juice drips down my chin and onto my blue and white sleeper.

"I don't know how..." I say "Cut it for me?" I ask.  Holding up the mushy, man-handled mango - batting my eye lashes.

"Eh!" He bellows! I jump in my seat.

"Learn to eat it the right way! Come now, try!"

Frustrated.  I don't care! So I bite down. I tear in and sink my teeth into this golden fruit.  Feeling my teeth hit the stone in the middle I hold on for dear life.  I just may lose this fruit if I don't!

Chewing away, slurping up the pulp while licking my fingers. My cheeks are sticky, and the stringy pieces of fleshy fruit catch my teeth and tongue.  Like shrapnel after a grenade going off, strewed bits of green and yellow peel lay on the concrete floor of the balcony.  I flick the skin off my fingers, and it lands on my toe. It is then I notice my pj's are no longer the same colour as when I woke up that morning.

An orange abstract painting on my one perfectly clean jammies.

I look up and see mom watching me through the rot-iron gate of the veranda. Gently smiling. 

I then see him neatly devour his fruit with not so much as a lost drop. He pears up and grins as he pulls out his handkerchief. Wiping my chin, fingers, hands and my toe. Then lifting me to sit on his lap to complete mission: clean-up.

I hear the clattering of plates, men talking loudly, then sharply interrupted by a honk from the lorry in the street.

He carries me through the house once again and puts me down in front of that cherry wood table where my uncles and father sit. My smile wide, mango in one hand, and yellow handkerchief in the other. A sense of victory. I did it.  I ate my first mango. Properly.

He sits at the head of the table, joining his sons and begins to eat from the spread in front of him, laughing and chuckling.

Nanny picks me up, holds me over the sink and washes my face. Sitting in her lap she feeds me breakfast...so begins my day...

So goes my Georgetown Morning

xo,

A Girl Who Likes to Cook & Loves to Eat - age 5 and a half