Ice Cream

My quiet steps quickened as I approached the Children's Center. There was hardly anyone around at 8:30 in the morning. I waved good morning to the securty guard and resumed my quest to find the gastroenterology clinic where I was scheduled to appear. I straightened my white coat and headed for Clinic 1, where a blond haired lady was sitting in front of an empty waiting room. She saw me approaching and looked at me in disapproval. In response that I can now label only as snooty, I fastened the top button of my white coat and adjusted my stethoscope that was hanging around my neck. Without hesitation and without any need of approval, I entered through the door that led to the patient rooms with only a side glance at the clerk.

Once I was through the door, I realized I had no idea where the heck I was. I made a circle with my steps, trying to locate who might be a GI attending. No one. I retraced my steps back to the front of the clinic, where the gatekeeper of all that is shit and farting was still sitting (no offense to all you GI lovers out there).

"Excuse me, but where is the GI clinic?" I asked.

"Oh, there is no GI clinic today," said she.

In that moment, I was taken back to my childhood. I was three years old, and my father was buying me ice cream at Disney World in Orlando.

Later in the day, I went to Piedmont park and laid in the grass enjoying the bright blue sky. I forgot how blue the sky can be.

To Fry A Dosa

I'm seven years old and it's a dry, summer morning in Bangalore, India. I hear the vegetable vendor on the streets, waking me up with his daily cries of fresh produce. I rub my eyes as my blurred sight slowly begins to sharpen, but it's my sense of smell that more quickly returns. It's the scent of my grandmother frying dosas.

I see her figure in front of the stove in the small kitchen. She turns around, smiles and says, "Good morning!" I notice that she hasn't yet put on her dentures as her lips softly curve inward. Minutes later, she brings me a stainless steel plate with a small dosa, some pickle and chutney. She makes the dosas very small, only about 5 inches in diameter, specially made for me.

I finish one, and she brings me another, freshly made, and one more after that.

Years later, after my grandmother is gone, I will realize how much this woman amazed and continues to amaze me, with her tiny frame, grey hair, and soft fingers. I couldn't imagine that this woman had once fled her home country of Burma during World War II and spent months hiding in the jungles before arriving in India by foot.

I remember today, as I prepare dosa batter on my own for the first time, that Ajee was the only one to make me those mini-dosas. It's not typically how dosas are made. In restaurants, I have ordered countless numbers of dosas, mostly large, crisped to perfection. They are sculptures, the way they extend beyond the limitations of a dinner plate and induce mouth-watering sighs from hungry customers. Even at my mother's house, we fry the dosas to the edges of the frying pan.

But I'll never forget my grandmother's small dosas that she used to make for me. They were soft, almost scorching hot, and of course, so tasty! I haven't seen her in many years, but I'm really missing her right now. I think maybe if she was still alive, I would write her a letter and ask her for her recipe. Instead I will give my mother a call. She has, by default, inherited all the habits of my grandmother. And maybe if I try, they can be passed along to me.