There is a story by Rosemary Wells that my son Ettu likes called "First Tomato." It is part of the three-story Voyage to the Bunny Planet, which tells the tales of small children who are transported from their mundane and solitary days to "the day that should have been." In "First Tomato," after a particularly bad day, Claire's voyage takes her to a vegetable garden, where she picks a ripe tomato at her mother's request. She so much wants to eat that tomato for herself but resists the temptation and brings it back to her mother who uses it to make her a delicious tomato soup. As she awaits the soup, she is transported back to her day, with a renewed sense of hope for the day to come. It is a lovely story and one that brings home the notion that our enjoyment of food is primarily due to the people with whom we share it. The simple act of a mother making a soup for her child comforts the child in a way that few things can.
Tonight I think of this while thinking of you, so far away from us here visiting in Springfield and you in India. I continue to roast tomatoes, prepare rice, and cook for our children, while you make food for your mother in her kitchen, so sick as she is yet asking for your kitchari to comfort and ease her hunger, if only through a few small bites. For years we always imagined you going back and showing your mother your facility in the kitchen, but it was always just easier to have someone cook for us when we were in India. And we rarely if ever did go into that kitchen. Now you are there, and the one thing, beyond your presence, that she wants most from you is your cooking. What a bittersweet feeling that must bring, since you know that even with this porridge, you aren't able to give her that day that should have been.
So here we are going about our day and eating our meals, and things just don't taste the same without you. But I know you are giving a gift that only you can give from one son to his mother, and like that first tomato, it is as precious as gold.