UNTITLED : KITCHARI

In December, I lose my taste for many things.

70% of my diet becomes soaked oats spiced with cardamom and ginger, drenched with coconut oil and milk; or kitchari.  I blend two recipes, one from an ayurvedic website, and one from a cookbook.  There is an ache inside of me, some tender place deep in my stomach.

In December I get sick.  We come back from Mpls, and I come down with a virus.  My uterus continues to swell up and out, even as my appetite turns dry as an old corn husk, belly aching with the stretch.

I soak 1 cup rice and 1/3 cup green mung dal in water mixed with yogurt or whey.

Something toxic builds behind my eyes, dropping chin to chest.  Pain traces from the scapula, circles collar bones, shoulder girdle, delicate as wire lace piercing into biceps late at night.

Two days later, sometimes three, I dump the rice and dal into a saucepot with 3 cups water and bring to a boil.  Some batches I add vegetables – cubes of sweet potato, okra slices, shreds of kale and spinach.  I turn the heat down to a simmer.

Always I have been a consumer – the need to fill some nameless emptiness left me holding cigarettes, coffee, tea, or food most waking moments of my 20’s.  Piles of pills, sticky red syrup, syringes filled with brown liquid to heat the belly, clear liquid to numb the veins and tongue.  I was always trying to get full.

In a smaller pot, I fry green onions, pumpkin seeds, garlic and ginger in coconut oil and ghee.  I crush fennel, mustard, cumin, and coriander seeds in the mortar and pestle.  Sea salt and pink peppercorns.  I add turmeric, cardamom, lemon juice and creamy coconut milk.  Simmer.

Always in me there has been a divide – a split between hope and despair, rage and happiness.

Something has been happening – some letting go deep inside of me.  Something sweet inside of me has bubbled up.

When the rice and dal are done, I pour the sauce from the smaller pot over them and stir well.  The smell of onion and spice billow up to meet me.  I eat it throughout the week, one meal a day, sometimes two or even three.  Mixed with yogurt.  Scrambled with eggs.  Sprinkled with raw cheese or ume plum vinegar.

This time I lean into it – arms and legs out radiating starfish; spine inside me phosphorescent, veins and channels stretching out, the question as always – if these are roots, what do they spring from?  Branches – what do they reach for?