The baby’s head smells like curry powder. So does the kitchen.
She has figured out how to open doors. She comes out of her bedroom in the morning (or in the middle of the night), and finds her way to our room, opening door after door until she can hoist herself into our bed. Lately she has really liked opening the door to the pantry and getting into the spices. She shakes them, and then if she can manage she opens the tiny jars. And if she manages to open more than one jar, she pours the contents form one jar to the other, mixing spices and herbs like a little apothecarist.
The other day, I found an empty jar of whole cloves sitting on its side in the kitchen. Puzzled, I searched all over for where she could have dumped them, sniffing here and there for any telltale traces, unearthing not one clove. Shrugging, I told myself, “Well, maybe the jar was empty to begin with….”
A couple days later, I opened up the jar of mustard seed only to find it full of ginger powder. And there nestled in the ground ginger and mustard seeds were little brown clove bulbs, their spiky bulbs poking up through the pale yellow powder and little yellow spheres. A strange little concoction. Mystery solved.
The curry powder incident was another of her unmonitored sessions. I was in my room doing some work on the computer when I heard loud crying. Rushing downstairs, I found that not only had she dumped a whole packed of chana masala powder on the floor, she had then rubbed her eyes, stinging them with the spices.
When I was about nine or ten or twelve, my parents owned a restaurant. One of my jobs was to fill the salt and pepper shakers. One day, I rubbed my eyes in the middle of this task and the burning pain was instantaneous and horrible. My mother (or maybe my brother, I can’t remember) took me to the bathroom and helped me rinse out my eyes, but the sting lasted a good while. For a lifetime, one could say.
I am reminded of this as the four year old, runs up to the baby. His arms are spread wide. “Wee-oo, wee-oo, wee-oo!” he trills, imitating an ambulance as her gives his crying sister a hug.
Lots of hugs and a wet washcloth to the eyes later, the baby and I are cuddled in a chair as she recovers from the pain, and the shocking surprise of the pain. I hold her close and smell her curry scented hair. It’s not a bad perfume.
The house smells like curry for days afterwards. I don’t mind – I love the warm homey smell.
These days, I feel like I’m ten steps behind discovering what my children are up to. While I’m making dinner or puttering around the house, they play and meddle and poke around and explore and discover. Later, I will find measuring cups in the toy school bus, plastic storage containers in the with the bakeware, books flung in all corners of the house. I’m sure there is a metaphor there for children and what they are capable of when you aren’t watching. Or perhaps it is a cautionary tale to savor and watch them while you can. I’m not sure, though I’m sure both are lessons I should be embracing.
But in the meantime, I’ve put a childproof cover on the doorknob of the pantry.