My hands numb to the extreme, I pry the frozen Rubbermaid container from the back of my freezer. There’s an imprint on the icy wall, but like all things, it will fade and evolve. Exhaustion seeps through my bones as I barely see through my fluttered eyes to press the digits of the microwave panel. I don’t have the time or patience to defrost the magical cooking of my mom, so I’ll rely on artificial radiation.
It’s Saturday night and my suitemates’ doors are either dark because they’re out entering the social scene or because they’re catching up on well–deserved sleep after midterms. It’s often I feel I’m in my own world—like I’m the only one who is homesick with every step into the colder season, or when I eat the bland dining hall food, or when I am surrounded by this alien culture.
Beep, beep.
The sound awakens me, but my eyes don’t show it. They’re red with fatigue and a cold, yet I force them open to take out the still chilled container. I remember then that I only put it in for two minutes, as I don’t wish to be the first one in my building to cause a fire. After breaking up the curry with my spoon, I jail it back in the microwave, letting another interval run.
If only I could take college in parts rather than being thrown in the microwave at extreme temperatures. I feel as though I’m melting so quickly, and no one will stop me until I’m nothing but soup waiting at customs to be sent home.
I’d welcome soup—a food I detest—with a salivating mouth if my mom made it. I know she’d make it spicy to the point of sweet pain and dice up vegetables she thinks I won’t notice. It’s moments like this that make me regret not always jumping at the chance to devour every meal she made.
The rows of umami pepper sauce bottles on top of the microwave mock me. They’re the only flavor I brought from home. On their own, sure, they’re great, but I miss their inclusion in broader creations like chow mein, cook–up rice, and chicken curry. If I close my eyes tight enough—my nose is already blocked up due to the cold—my senses can almost replicate the smell of the fresh chicken curry that my mom has to open the back door for or else the scent will get trapped on everything.
If I could go back, I wouldn’t fully open the door, willing the scent of the dhal or curry to stick to my clothes so that in that moment, it’s preserved. Nostalgia is a weird feeling that fuels even weirder ideas.
Beep, beep.
The icy layer on top of the curry has melted, and the first chunks of succulent chicken surface. It took immense heat, but the chicken is slowly returning to its former glory. It might not be as tasty as when my mom made it weeks ago, but it’s comfortably close—and that’s progress. I wonder if I’ve made any progress while at Penn.
Sure, the Taylor series in my MATH 1400 class and gen chem are giving me more trouble than I’d like, but I’m referring to adjusting. It’s officially been a month, and I miss home more than ever. Every walk to class is a reminder of the stony capitalist America I live in, and that day by day more hate grows toward people who look like me, people who have the same proud immigrant blood that flows through my veins. The walls of my suite, as isolating as they may be, protect me from the harsh reality outside and the fact that I’m facing it alone.
The bowl is doing its exhaustive spinning routine, lapping to meet my intense eyes and reminding me to have patience. In these last few days, I’ll admit I’ve been rather impatient, from calling my mom while she was at work and being frustrated she didn’t answer to dumping all my clothes out and becoming so overwhelmed I couldn’t sort them all. The bowl continues its disciplined routine, already mocking both my failure in adapting to college and my coping mechanisms.
As the timer tricks me, stretching the seconds, I reflect on the very reason I’m bracing against my dorm wall at 11 p.m. My mom means well, but she’s paranoid, always worrying I’ll say the wrong things to the wrong people. From birth, I’ve had a rather loose tongue that she tells me will get me in trouble. I never grew out of it, just redirected it to opinionated conversation. But in college, I mind my words, opinions, and thoughts to save face—her face. Being a college student in a place where people don’t share my views is one thing, but an environment that instills fear into you: That’s oppressive. If I warm the bowl up for five minutes longer, it won’t withstand the pressure. We all have our limits; it’s about learning to balance before we hit them. So I’ve been good. I let the microaggressions slide and stay quiet in certain conversations because the only reason I have food to eat on a cold Saturday night is because of my mom.
2,500 miles away, and she’s managed to not let me leave her side—so if her one wish is for me to play it safe, I’ll temporarily retire my sharp words.
Beep, beep.
The final two minutes begin as I push the Rubbermaid bowl back into the “electronic oven.” A few seconds pass, and that’s when the first scent meets my senses. I can almost taste the creamy gravy that will trap spices galore on my tongue. When the final timer goes off, I want to yank the handle off, but I gently open the door, too scared that anything could mess with my mom’s Caribbean take on tikka masala. My mind acts quicker than my tongue, dopamine overloading my system as I feel a warmth inside of me that doesn’t quite match the chill of my dorm’s AC. I’m excited … over food … no, over what it’s defrosting.
The scent takes me back to the me that is helping my easily overwhelmed mother in the kitchen. The warmth reminds me of the humidity back home that causes my curly hair to stick to my forehead in an overstimulating craze. Finally, my mind stops as I spoon a steaming hot chunk of curry into my mouth and let it burn my tongue. The pain is light, though, almost insignificant, as the taste reminds me of my pride—my pride to be Guyanese, the child of immigrants and my mother’s daughter.
Each bite is a return. Each burn is a reminder of the sacrifices that placed me here and of the hands that helped me—and are still holding me, just at a distance. Ignoring the incoming winter, I guess I just need to defrost, too. I’m reclaiming what I’ve put on pause.
