THE BATTLE WITH STEW

GRNERATED USING META AI

Tentatively, I walked into the kitchen, ready for battle. The ingredients had already been laid out and placed on the counter. I took one last check of my phone to realize again the text message my mom sent me a few minutes earlier.

“Presh, I won't make it home on time, heavy traffic. Help me prepare the stew. The ingredients are already there. Remember what I taught you last week, Sunday? Just chop, blend and fry.”

It was all good, I kept telling myself. I can do this. I recited it like a mantra. Except nothing about this was good. I was only sixteen, and the only thing I confidently knew how to cook was indomie noodles.

My mom usually made me stand in a corner in the kitchen and observe while she cooked, but I never took it seriously. I rarely observed, sometimes distracted by my phone. Especially that Sunday evening, when she taught me how to cook stew. I didn't pay quite rapt attention to what she was doing. I only remembered sparingly. What was I going to do?

I decided to throw caution to the wind and make the stew anyway. “What will be will be”, I said jokingly to myself, and got right into it.

I collected the apron from where it hung on the wall and wore it feeling fully armed. Then I started with the tomatoes. Taking one of the knives from the kitchen, I began chopping everything I could lay my eyes on. First the tomatoes, then the inions, then the pepper. One hour later, I was done. I blew out a breath, stage one completed.

I took the blender out from one of the kitchen shelves and looked at it with some doubt. I wasn't sure how it would work since I had never used one before. However, I plugged it in anyway. I poured all the chopped ingredients into the blender and covered it. Nothing happened. I stood with my hands on my hips wondering what was wrong. I removed the plug then plugged it back inside. Still nothing. Then I saw some buttons on the blender.

Feeling explorative, I pressed the last button. The blender roared to life, and began making a sound that startled me a bit. I stepped back a bit out of fright. Then sound stopped. I pressed the second button, and it roared to life again. This time vibrating furiously. I noticed it began blending the tomatoes. I waited patiently. After sometime, it stopped. But the mixture wasn't well blended. I decided to try the first button. It continued blending again, this time, non-stop. Once I was satisfied with the blended mixture, I turned it off, removing it from the socket. Pouring the mixture into a pot, it looked like the one, mummy began to fry that Sunday. At least I remembered that part. I smiled to myself. I was making progress.

Moving on to the last part, fry. By now, I was feeling excited. Cooking was actually interesting, I thought. Not until I saw the frozen chicken in one corner did I stop and scratch my head. I was feeling lost on what to do with the chicken. I stood there at the kitchen counter staring into deep contemplation at the ingredients. I was trying to remember what mom would typically do with a raw chicken, but I was blank. I decided to go with my instinct and to throw caution to the wind, I had nothing to lose anyway.

I grabbed the frozen chicken, washed it and turned it into a small pot, added a little water and some salt and boiled it till it was soft enough. Then I went ahead to fry my stew. Immediately, I added the oil to the pot. The hissing noise made me move back. Nervously, I poured in the blended mixture, added any spice I could find in the kitchen, and turned everything together. The oil began popping out furiously. I was ready to run out of the kitchen. Did I do something wrong?, as I stared from a distance at the way the stew that was boiling seriously kept splattering everywhere.

Then I remembered my mom’s words that fateful Sunday evening.

“Make sure you continue to stir, or it will get burnt”

I let out a loud groan, afraid of going close to the pot again. Carefully, like a soldier about to put off a missile bomb, I held the spoon firmly, and stood a significant distance from the point, not too far but not too near also. I stretched my hands and bent my back a little to be able to continue stirring at a safe distance.

Finally, the stew was ready. I had successfully stirred everything, added the chicken and the chicken stock. It tasted like stew, I thought to myself, beaming from ear to ear. I looked around the kitchen. It was a mess. I was a mess. The apron was all stained with splashes of stew, I smelled of spices and sweat trickled down my forehead.

My mom walked in at that time and took in the scene before her eyes. Pausing on the kitchen door, her eyes raked my body from head to toe, then shifted to how messy the kitchen was, then landed on the pot of stew. Slowly she walked in, opened the pot and tasted it. I looked at her expectantly as I awaited her remark.

“The chicken is tasteless, the stew is a bit spicy, but you did well” she said, looking at me.

I released a breath I didn't know I was holding.

“It was a battle here” I said exhausted.

“At least you didn't burn the house. "I was afraid that would actually happen,” she said, and I couldn't help but laugh at that.