Sharing
I come home weary.
The day was long, the city dusty, noisy, busy. As I plod down the trail to our house, I'm making a list--we have bread, sugar, canned milk. There are mandarins, bananas, and biscuits left over from breakfast. I duck under the branches of the lemon trees. We can have tea, and a simple supper, and then go to bed.
As I reach the concrete porch I am greeted by a strong smell. I stop and sniff. There is a pot, boiling away on the stove. No boys in sight. I lift the lid.
A little bit of the Ucayali river is boiling away in my kitchen. The pot is brim full of fish--heads, tails, fins intact. They peer up at me though glassy eyes. I suddenly feel very possessive. My kitchen. My pot. Not my fish. Someone has thrown in chunks of green plátano as well.
This is their favorite food. As I love summer squash and lentil curry and cinnamon buns, these guys love their river fish and green plátano. They eat the entire fish, head and all, crunching up the bones.
Gross, I want to think, gross gross gross.
But I know better. And I'm learning to calm the turning stomach and bite the tongue and even make rice for them, to accompany their favorite dish.
Although I want to make rules about animals in the house (must be furry, warm, breathing, and by the name of Joey the cat), I also want Edwin and Mauro and whoever else to feel like their house is their home. It is. This space is shared. It is a home for any worker or passerby who happens to want to help out with our project.
There's tea and bread. I don't have to partake of their dinner, and they don't have to partake of mine. But we can share the same table.
Besides, no one has to know how much soap I will later use on that pot. That's my secret.
The day was long, the city dusty, noisy, busy. As I plod down the trail to our house, I'm making a list--we have bread, sugar, canned milk. There are mandarins, bananas, and biscuits left over from breakfast. I duck under the branches of the lemon trees. We can have tea, and a simple supper, and then go to bed.
As I reach the concrete porch I am greeted by a strong smell. I stop and sniff. There is a pot, boiling away on the stove. No boys in sight. I lift the lid.
A little bit of the Ucayali river is boiling away in my kitchen. The pot is brim full of fish--heads, tails, fins intact. They peer up at me though glassy eyes. I suddenly feel very possessive. My kitchen. My pot. Not my fish. Someone has thrown in chunks of green plátano as well.
This is their favorite food. As I love summer squash and lentil curry and cinnamon buns, these guys love their river fish and green plátano. They eat the entire fish, head and all, crunching up the bones.
Gross, I want to think, gross gross gross.
But I know better. And I'm learning to calm the turning stomach and bite the tongue and even make rice for them, to accompany their favorite dish.
Although I want to make rules about animals in the house (must be furry, warm, breathing, and by the name of Joey the cat), I also want Edwin and Mauro and whoever else to feel like their house is their home. It is. This space is shared. It is a home for any worker or passerby who happens to want to help out with our project.
There's tea and bread. I don't have to partake of their dinner, and they don't have to partake of mine. But we can share the same table.
Besides, no one has to know how much soap I will later use on that pot. That's my secret.
posted by Ansley at 12:15 PM
1 Comments:
Dear Ansley,
What a wonderful story about sharing. Thank you so much, I loved thinking about the fish peering up at you from the pot. Tonight just as I got ready to put my feet up and have a nice talk with Elizabeth, someone called that wanted to talk about his recent trip to the hospital and how disatisfied he is with his doctors. I did not want to "share" my time with him right then, either. Thank you for encouraging me to be charitable.
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