Mixie

by Sumitra Singam

Until I finish uni, move into a grown-up house, my mother is The Cook. Until she gifts me her mixie. Until she says, You will have to make your own vizhuthu for sambar now, darling. Until she buys a new one for herself, a Preeti, top of the line, much better than the Sumeet she gave me. Until the Sumeet sits on my benchtop like a dinosaur in a doll’s house. Until I cook for them, my white housemates don’t understand it. Until I fry dried chilli, coriander seeds, channa dhal and make their eyes water. Until I grind the spices together with coconut in the Sumeet and make them cover their ears against my childhood symphony. Until I add the vizhuthu to tamarind water - strange vegetables bubbling potion-like in it. Until I add thoor dhal cooked in a pressure cooker that whistles like a steam train. Until I temper mustard seeds, fenugreek, curry leaves, asafoetida making them scrunch their noses. Until I put pillowy-soft rice on their plates, drizzle ghee on it, ladle sambar onto it. Until I throw all the cutlery away and make them use their fingers. Until I show them how to use their thumb to slide the bolus into their mouth. Until they close their eyes and moan, like I am pleasuring them in some other way. Until I eat what I have cooked myself. Until I taste every infinitesimal way that it is different from my mother’s. Until I taste that it is not the Sumeet. Until I taste that it is who cooks it. 

Sumitra Singam is a Malaysian-Indian-Australian coconut who writes in Naarm/Melbourne. She travelled through many spaces to get there and writes to make sense of her experiences. Her work has been nominated for many awards, and was selected for Best Microfictions 2024. She works as a trauma therapist and runs workshops on how to write trauma safely. She’ll be the one in the kitchen making chai (where’s your cardamom?). Bluesky: @pleomorphic2

Sumitra also has a chapbook, Mother Karma, forthcoming with JAKE.