A thing I ate that I loved.
The sinus pressure in my face was so intense Wednesday, that my teeth hurt. Luckily, I had the day off, and was poised to dedicate my entire being to sprawling, Season 3 of Mad Men, and Mucinex (despite the fact that this would mean not dedicating my entire being to yoga class, laundry, and saying goodbye to my friend who’s on her way to India for three weeks).
Instead, the universe decided I needed to be called into work for nine hours, during which time I would design, print, cut, and bind 1400 booklets for Narcotics Anonymous, only to be screamed at by their media rep (who desperately needed a toke of ANYTHING) that it wasn’t “cheery enough.” For lunch I brought some organic tomato soup I bought from Costco, which wasn’t nearly as good as I remember it being the first time, so I threw it away after a few bites. Insult to injury.
By the time I left work I thought my face was going to explode. However, I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t say goodbye to my friend, who was just across the street at the Indian restaurant her family owns. Raj is one of those people who is so brimming with wisdom beyond her years, I wonder how she functions day-to-day in the midst of all her revelations. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she suddenly sprouted a mandorla and flowers blossomed in her footprints á la Ferngully.
I probably looked as shitty as I felt, because Raj immediately brought me a cup of ginger tea, which I cooled with cream, downed in three gulps, and asked for another. Her mother, who I have only seen come out of the kitchen a handful of times, emerged to say hello and give her blessing, as is her custom for family friends. She took my head in her hands, felt my forehead, mumbled something in Punjabi, and retreated back to the kitchen. She emerged ten or fifteen minutes later, and presented me with a bowl of the best lentil soup I have ever eaten in my life. It was dense and golden-green with turmeric, perfectly spiced, and not at all fussy — just a few stray peas and a chunk or two of carrot — exactly what I needed.
Raj’s mother lingered a bit, and after a while told me (in Punjabi, with Raj translating) that she had curly hair like mine. I responded that I would love to see her at home, when she wore it down. Then, she (very boldly) asked if she might touch mine…
I let her. That might be my customary old person blessing someday.
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