Apartment 303

The heat of July in the city, hot breeze and steamy concrete. Toronto, humid and hazy, with bustling people and street cars screeching along.  Beck Taxis in their bright orange and green logos dodge each other in the wall to wall traffic. 

The drive was energetic, full of things to look at, people to make up storied about as they stroll along, and action to be had.  This was prime time for a country girl like me.

July and it's summer. And July is the time for a wedding. 

My cousin was arranged to be married, and the wedding was tomorrow. I, being 8 years old at the time, was more thrilled about the party dress I'd wear the night of the reception than the fact I'd be giving away yet another sister in holy matrimony. There's 24 cousins now, a lot more of us to give away...little did I know back then.

As a sister, no matter the age, it is your duty to be there to watch your sister become a bride and leave your home. Dress her up, douse her fair skin with a mixture of turmeric and coconut oil, help her with her jewelry, shower her with scents like jasmine, sandalwood and rose water. Why? At that age, I didn't really know or thought to ask questions. It was my loving duty to be with her as she stopped being sister and began being wife. It was the excitement of it all that intrigued me.

Wedding time and the journey begins for my cousin, my sister. And the fun begins for me.

A brick path way with a raised wooden edge meanders to the lobby door.  I never liked the building; I found it rough and haphazard.  

The smell of the grass was strong and mineral like, coupled with an old stale appearance.  I dare not touch the lawn. I titter one foot in front of the other balancing on the wooden planks all the way up to the door. A challenge to not touch the grass or the zig-zag bricks I had mastered over the years of visiting Ajee, my paternal grandmother.

I could always tell who was already there at Ajee’s as I recognized the cars of my aunts and uncles in the small parking lot. Knowing that I would have company to play with was always a plus. Brother dearest, tiny fellow at the time with his chubby knees and round China doll face was lifted and carried by mom and dad fetched large grocery bags with vegetables. 

The lobby door had glass windows that were always cracked and broken.  Sometimes the door was permanently unlocked with no need to press the buzzer number.  This time the glass was gone so I stooped down and went through the window pane. A scolding came afterwards from mom.

I look down at my Kermit the Frog digital watch and it says it’s still morning. The day is getting started. 

Running to jam the button to call the elevator. Now I know we are in for fun, the excitement began to build in my belly!  Dad, however, bypasses the elevator and takes the stairs. Later it was discovered he was claustrophobic and hated that elevator in particular.

Apartment 303, so press 3 – I say to myself.

Ding! The door opens and I turn to my left.  Grey, red and black carpet and off-white walls dotted with bright orange doors. A familiar hallway.  The smell of browning comes floating my way.  The emergency exit door at the end of the hall opens and Dad steps out.  Apartment 303’s door swings open…

“Eh man! You know we waitin’ on dis pumpkin all morning!?” my uncle teases yet scolds my father for being behind schedule while taking the bags from my dad’s hands.

Dad smiles a big toothy grin and laughs, “Come, let’s cook!” he says hugging his much older brother.

Mom struggles to hold my brother, and decides to set him down to use his own sausage-like legs. He runs frantically up to the door, bursting past me to get into apartment 303.  As he whirls by, I pick up the pace and as I approach the smell becomes more intense. By the time I get through the door and pull my shoes off, the scent bowls me over!

Chaos!

Voices yelling across the room, arms stretched out passing shiny stainless steel bowls from one end of the apartment to another.  The floor covered in white sheets and ladies sit in circles peeling the pumpkin pieces my father just brought in.  Another group, men this time, peeled potatoes and kur-plunked them into a blue plastic bucket full of water.

Ajee and her friends roll puris - a deep fried flat bread, and fling them like Frisbees on a folded white sheet, as my dad’s brother, with his specks of sweat beading off his forehead, pick up the puris and lay them in the oil. Dad’s sister sits on a stool slowly pushing them around with a wooden paddle. As they become golden she lifts them out as a few more ladies dab the excess oil off and lay them in the trade marked foil trays.

The whistle of a pressure cooker goes off and the hiss of oil tempering jeera (cumin in Hindi) and garlic sizzles. The air is filled with the robust smell of spices and smoke. Garam Masala mist.

My girl cousins grab my hand and pull me through the kitchen.  We sit around the table, little plastic sandwich bags and a disposable foil tray of warm Prasad (blessed offerings) sits on one end. Beside this tray is another tray little white hockey pucks of pedha with thumb prints in the middle. Crunchy sugar coated meethai - like a sugar encrusted fritter, curled like gnarled branches of a tree in the final tray.

Aunty lines the 3 of us girls up a chair for each.  A sweet assembly line we were. Each of us given the task to put together Prasad parcels for our cousin’s wedding.  This was important, she noted. It will be blessed by the priest and given to every guest who comes to the wedding. Each guest will leave with something blessed by God and with only sweet words to say about the newly wed couple.  Romantic, right?

Too young to fry puries, peel vegetables or chop spinach.  But too old to sit by and do nothing.  So this was our something.

“You will put so-much in the bag,” she explained to me, showing me a sample size.  Plopping it in the plastic baggy and setting it down in front of the next girl to place the pedha, and the last to follow is the girl with the crispy meethai.

I stuck my fingers into the warm doughy mass and pinched off a lump.  The smell of cardamom and butter stuck to my hands.  The oily bundle was rolled and dropped into the sandwich bag and placed beside my sister cousin.

“Taste it! Does it have cherries or raisins?” asked the eldest of us three assembly girls, responsible for the meethai, as she cracked a piece of the fritter with her teeth and chewed ever so loudly.

I give in to the peer pressure and taste the creamy starchy sweet.  The Holy offering melts in my mouth as I chew on the gold raisins left behind.  Its warm texture tastes like butter with a hint of parched caramel and a back-note of vanilla.

“Raisins,” I say, while scrunching my nose in disapproval. “Give me a piece of that, is it good?” I ask.

I reach across and grab a piece of meethai and clamp down with a crack.  I hear the snap of the crunchy sweet resonate through my skull. Hard and crumbly at the same time, I decided I liked it and reached for another sample.

My sister cousin the in the middle also reaches for a piece and the three of us looked at each other with a sign of approval.

Pedha was next as we all went picking through for the bigger ones.  A fudge made of pure milk, sugar and butter, these were special.  Our elder cousin, in her late teens at the time, stirred the next batch of pedha.  Non-stop, her boney arm which had been set on ‘auto-pilot’ swirled that wooden pot spoon round and around.  A perpetual pedha production. A labour of sisterly love. It was her older sister set to marry in the morning.

The sharp sweetness was addictive.  We had been under a spell.  A spell of sweet and sugar.  A Holy Possession.  These weren't chocolates or candies. These were not your Jordan Almonds or white chocolate truffles you give away on the receiving table. Oh these were much more than that. These must be homemade, made with love, and blessed. They were Godly. Everything seemed Godly in Ajee's Apartment number 303. 

We couldn't help ourselves as we cracked into the meethai by the fistful.  The special parceling task was set to the side as we sat and enjoyed the view.

The spitting of hot oil, the bursts of laughter, and the vibrant colours piled up in silvery basins.  

Bright orange pumpkin, shiny verdant green spinach, rich red tomatoes and happy yellow pearls of chickpeas being soaked in a pool of water.

It was like a show full of edible colours. 

Assembly lines. Sweet, crunchy, oily, buttery. Milky, chewy, salty and spicy.

We sit, we dine and we watch on as a wedding feast comes to life, in the Holy Apartment 303.

xoxo,

A Girl Who Likes to Cook, age 8