My Mother’s kitchen and My Soul
The scent of cardamom and saffron weaves through the air, a fragrant tapestry against the backdrop of our modest home. It’s here, in this kitchen, that the rhythm of our lives pulses. The worn tiles, etched with memories of spilled tea and laughter, are a canvas upon which my mother paints her culinary masterpieces. I sit on a cushion, sunlight filtering through the window, casting dancing shadows on the walls.
Her hands, roughened by years of kneading dough and chopping herbs, move with a graceful fluidity. As she tosses fragrant rice into the pot, I inhale deeply, the aroma awakening a symphony of senses. I watch, mesmerized, as she transforms ordinary ingredients into extraordinary dishes. It is in these moments that I understand the profound connection between food and the soul.
Our kitchen is a sanctuary, a place where stories are shared and bonds are forged. Neighbors, friends, and distant relatives gather around the low table, their laughter mingling with the sizzle of the frying pan. My father, a silent observer, steals bites of the still-warm bread, his eyes twinkling with approval.
The feast is a spectacle, a riot of colors and flavors. Fragrant pilafs, tender kebabs, and a myriad of dips adorn the سفرة (sufra), our dining table. As we savor each bite, I feel a deep sense of belonging, a connection to generations past.
Yet, it is not just the food that nourishes us. It is the shared experience, the laughter, the stories, and the love that permeate our kitchen. My mother’s cooking is more than sustenance; it is an expression of her love, her culture, and her identity.
Distance has separated us, but the bond we share through food remains unbroken. We recreate her recipes, savoring each step, each aroma, as if she were standing beside us. In these moments, I feel closest to her, connected by the threads of tradition and love.
My hands, now calloused from my own culinary adventures, bear the imprint of her teachings. Every time I step into my kitchen, I am transported back to that small room filled with warmth, laughter, and the intoxicating aroma of spices.
Some may shy away from the legacy of their mothers, but I embrace it wholeheartedly. My mother’s kitchen is not just a place; it is a part of me, a cornerstone of my identity. It is where I learned the art of hospitality, the importance of sharing, and the power of food to bring people together.
As I stir a pot of fragrant stew, I feel a sense of peace and purpose. I am carrying on a tradition, honoring my heritage, and creating memories that will be cherished for generations to come. In the heart of every dish I prepare, I find a piece of my mother’s soul, a testament to the enduring power of love, family, and the magic that unfolds within the walls of the kitchen.
