Scrambled Eggs

Don't worry, I'm almost done with Interpreter of Maladies, I just want to post one more thing about the gorgeous work of my favorite Jhumpa Lahiri.

I woke up one morning and my dad had his nose in about 5 different Indian cook books. My mom kept pulling out different ones saying things like, "If you like stuff like this, you'll love this book." And, "this book is great for these kinds of recipes."

In a way, I think she actually liked that he was so into it. My dad likes to cook, but we never saw him this into it. He was asking questions like, "What's egg curry?" And, "What spices do I need for this?"

My dad is super smart, and as naive as it sounds, he practically knows everything. I think my mom loved that fact that he was coming to her with questions that only she would know the answer to. I loved seeing the pride on her face when she knew the answer and the curiosity in his eyes when he learned something new.

If you read my post last week, you know that my sister Lois is one of the biggest readers I know. My dad on the other hand is never without a book. He also has a blog where he writes about Jewish text, every day life, and more everyday life. It's very important for my dad to always have a book next to him.

Oh gosh, I feel like such a dummy, I'm sure everyone's wondering why on earth this egg curry was such an important factor to one of the great summer days of 2010.

I found out later that day that the night before my mom had convinced my dad--just like she convinced me--to read Jhumpa Lahiri.

I'm realizing just writing this now, that before this happened, I had no intention of allowing Jhumpa's writing into my heart.

I was deprived of her creaminess.

I can't imagine a life without her words flowing through me. I saw that my dad was so mesmerized by her, and I saw that he was taken over by the one tiny, tiny micro idea that didn't even pop out to me the first time I read the last story in Interpreter of Maladies.

In the last story of the brilliant book our character has left his town of Calcutta and is living in a room that he rented out. The house in general is shared by others, but this one room is his.

Just like my mom says that when she lived in England after college the only thing she could afford were eggs, so did our character. Egg curry was his favorite.

As I think now, there is some sort of appeal to the mysterious egg curry.

What makes it so special? So easy? So affordable and cheap, yet so rich and plentiful?

I live for the micro ideas that you and only you can get something out of. I wait for them to come. Patiently, and not eagerly. But still, I long for their arrival.

I anticipate the pleasure of loving something only you could love for only reasons you can know of and understand.

What I'm trying to say is, is that while egg curry may be something that has absolutely no meaning to you, it has every bit of meaning to me.

I got to experience it physically and mentally, which not many readers can do.

I read of the egg curry and imagined it sliding down my own throat, creating a safe and easy barrier and shield for me.

Then, that night, egg curry was served. My dad made it special for us.

By then I realized I didn't have to imagine loving it and letting it slide down my throat.

I knew it.

And it was delicious.