Food For Thought

As the first rays of the rising sun kissed the neighboring mountains, the inhabitants of the valley, would by force of habit, rise and march right into the arms of what seemed like a promising day. 

The village grew abuzz with a plethora of activities. The concoction of sounds ranged from the clanking of tea mugs to the clucking of hens; and this almost always would be around the time I woke up.  

I liked my share of breakfast eggs half boiled and as soon as I was done washing up, I would accompany my granny to the coop and pick up freshly laid eggs, much to the respite of the hen who would finally stop calling out to me (or so I thought she did till I was much older). I clearly remember how beautiful the brown shelled eggs looked sitting in a basket in a corner table in the kitchen.

Minutes later, a huge jug of milk would arrive at our doorstep. My grand uncle had a large number of cows in his shed and my cup of milk would come from any one of them depending on who was milked first in the morning. I religiously fed all the cows a stem of their favorite local fauna everyday as a way of thanking them for their kindness and in the process staring into their big beautiful eyes and also noticing what  big nostrils they had.

I spent my mornings playing with the other children in the crop fields or on the hilltop doing anything at all be it climbing trees, getting into the goat shed, feeding the pigs or simply running around.  

We plucked  whatever fruits we felt like feasting on; guavas, pears and avocados being my favorite. The pear trees were tricky to scale and we kids always turned for help to any one of the many uncles and brothers we had. 

A small scrawny shrub bore the most delectable berries I have ever tasted. Red, small and seeded, I can almost taste them now as I revisit my memories of it.   

Except sugarcane, which I was fed peeled, washed and cubed, pretty much every other fruit available was consumed in its most natural state.

Our farms were abundantly rich and besides paddy, which was the main product, we had huge fields lush with the growth of peas, corns, potatoes and smaller gardens whose soil nourished sweet potatoes, carrots, radish, cabbage, pumpkin and a variety of leafy greens. 

Lunch time was always fun and if not at my granny’s place then it was at at any one of the houses around where my grand aunties lovingly fed me for I was a food lover even at that age. 

The wooden stools I sat on, the earthen stove with logs in them burning bright to keep the fuel going and the heap of ash below kept me engaged and I would often gaze into the fire looking for shapes and figures to feed my imagination as my belly waited for its own.

The nurturing food would often be accompanied by pickles made out of wild fruits , many of which are still my favorite.

I would usually be back home by tea time post which I settled in for the day. Television was a luxury back then and dinner time was seemingly candle lit courtesy the dim lit light bulb no brighter than a flickering candle. A kerosene lamp always came to our rescue; it even had a lever we could use to manage its intensity before finally shutting it down as we called it a day. 

The distant cry of wolves resonated throughout the hills; the denizens deep in slumber a little while after the sun had gone down; until tomorrow, when a new dawn would beckon.