Asian Eggplant Dishes
It’s Winter. I’m fussing over the state of affairs; work is overwhelming, the house is a mess, the kids have no manners, things are expensive, my clothes… and the like. I really just need a workout, but instead only my mind is running, and in circles as per usual when my body has done insufficient knockdown, calorie-burning work.
I tackle the kitchen because it’s right in front of me, hence the most in-my-face annoying and, well, I can. “This, I can do” my mother-in-law would say about a task that is bite-sized. Besides being bite-sized, it will feel great when at least just one thing is done. Another inspiring person I’m lucky to have in my life I think as I “do”.
I spin up into a flurry of well-rehearsed action; swiping the counters, washing pots and pans and piling them noisily on top of the stove, discarding some questionable items in the fridge along the way. This is the usual pattern of kitchen cleaning, a circle of activities executed multiple times per week. More fridge debridement and a shopping list later… arrgh. I pause for a bit, feeling better.
The only problem with a kitchen is that it is never cleaned up, it always feels undone and a bit messy with all the things in, well, living. Usually this level of itchy is ok; it feels normal. However, this January each morning when I finish my morning routine, I am left with an odd sensation.
There is just something… off.
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At some point after we moved to Seattle, a large box arrived. Inside was now inscribed on the back “Longing for Mountains - To Dina & K. love, Susie”. The painting that had hung for so many years in their son’s bedroom, now hangs in our bedroom, some 8oo miles to the north, so we look at it everyday when we rise in the morning and when we go to bed at night. This painting, and the memories it evokes, connects us to them and our shared past; it’s more than a material object, it’s part of what makes a house, our home. And oh, the Eggplant Caviar.
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Two days later, I’m downstairs doing laundry. The washing machine is humming, the dryer tumbling a toasty, cozy heat into the room and I’m folding laundry, a task I do not relish and often put off until the clean clothes are piled up wrinkled on the counter. Today, however, I’m on a roll, folding away with a vengeance. The washing machine chirps it’s upbeat “All clean!” signal; the dryer rumbles on; I fold underpants.
Some 5’ later, the dryer pings its happy “All dry!” signal and I turn 180 degrees from folding to move the warm clothes from the dryer to the counter. Chaos, our sinuous silver Ocicat, promptly hops up onto the counter and, of course, plunks smack down on the warm pile of erstwhile clean laundry.
“Gotta love ‘em” I think as I move the wet clothes from one machine to the warm interior of the other. Chaos purrs. In the silent space surrounding the sounds of his kitty contentment, there is another sound, a faint scrabbling. I pause. Nothing.
“Mom! Hey Mom?! says Rascal as he trots in, chatting as only he can.
“Hi Rascal” I say out loud in a voice that I reserve strictly for cat convos.
“You paying attention here? Rascal meows ‘wow’, then ‘now’ followed by ‘brrouw’. Somehow he has made himself very clear.
“Yes, Rascal, what is it? Rascal sits and stares at me pointedly. He says ‘Rrrrouw’ apparently for emphasis. I start the dryer, leaving a now warm Chaos on top of the pile of laundry. “Come on Rascal, time for breakfast.” He trots upstairs by my side. I turn back to look at the laundry room, expecting satisfaction, but I’m not getting it.
There is just something… off.
To be continued…
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Cover image by: darkness_s, 2020, Nasu or nasubi, 2020. Source: Pixabay
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