morpheus and cooking

The kitchen was stuffy. The water was boiling. It was seething and hissing. He wiped beads of sweat off his forehead with the back of his palm and yawned. There were two pots, glistening and gleaming. A shade of fog covering the outside. The smell of spices as the water bubbled. He stood by the corner, arms folded, and watched. The floor was cool and smooth under his feet. He shivered a little as he thought of the rat that had recently been found roaming around here. It had left. But what if it hadn’t. Speaking of crawlies, his spine tingled as he wondered if there were roaches too. Or other things. He knew there weren’t. But that didn’t stop his monkey brain from being a little scared, and very repulsed by the idea.

He flicked the switch behind him, and the exhaust turned on. His inside head face swiveled from the pots, looked at him, and told him to turn it off. It would affect the way the heat was applied. He flicked the switch again. Off.

His arms were folded, and his hands were snuggling in his armpits which now were drenched with sweat.

The food smelled spectacular. His father motioned for him to come. He walked the few steps to the pots and looked inside. The water was bubbling furiously. Foaming at the sides. Hissing as it let out steam. Through the bubbles and steam, he could barely make out the meat inside, it had changed color from red and raw, to now a deeper brown. The bones standing tall. He put in a little turmeric. The tiny particles of powder instantly floated to where they were needed. Water turning to gold. He looked in the other, smaller pot. Yellow daal simmering furiously. Swimming with water, each fighting to stay on top, as far away from the fire as possible. Each drowning as the other forced them under. One after the other after the first. Again and again.

He stood next to the stove, leaning against the part where the marble countertop turned a corner into the other one. The sound of water boiling was rather poetic. He was incredibly sweaty. The wind was strong outside. He looked out the window in front of him, behind his father, and saw the leaves outside rustling as if upended by some strong gale. He would take a nice long shower after this. And then go outside. It would be nice.

He tapped his foot on the marble silently. His father looked at him. He stopped.

It was almost time to put in the next ingredients. Then they would let the stew simmer for about forty five minutes. And it would be done. He went to grab a cup of water. When he came back, his father was ready and had the two fist sized roaches in his hands. He dropped them into the boiling water and put the lid on top. The man smiled at him. He smiled back at his father. They walked out the kitchen. The water hissed in indifferent indignation.