Happy birthday, Ami!
It is my mother's birthday today. It is also Pakistan's Independence day, which makes it impossible to forget the day my mother was born.
I wish I could wish her, but we are driving through the Taurus Mountains in Turkey from Alanya to Konya and then on to Cappadocia. The road snakes through the pine covered mountains, the tops of which are rocky and naked. I feel a little car sick, not enough though, to not notice the fruit stalls on the side of the road.
"Let's stop at the next one," I suggest to Nasir from the back seat of the car - my front seat spot having been commandeered by our 14 year old.
Nasir gets out to translate for me but the shop keeper speaks fluent English. I feel ashamed. I wish I could speak his language the way Nasir does. I buy half a dozen baby bananas. Alanya was full of banana plantations so I know the fruit is fresh. I splurge on green figs buying a full dozen. I am sad. I wish I could share these figs with my cousin who loves them as much as I do. We just parted company an hour back. She is heading back to San Francisco with her family. We had an amazing two weeks together but my heart is greedy and can't have enough. I miss her, and her beautiful family. I miss my sister and her crazy pack. If we were still together, I would have opened my heart and bought two dozen figs for the 14 of us. Fine. I won't lie. I would still buy just a dozen.
At the back of the stall, I spy bottles of myriad colours; olive oil, jams, honey, honey comb, and marmalades. I pick up a bottle.
"What's this?"
"Fig jam. My mother made it."
I buy it for my mother. I tell him it's my mother's birthday. I like this gift - this jam made by this polite shop keeper's mother will in five days fly across the Atlantic to find it's place on my mother's breakfast table.
And me, still slightly car sick on the Taurus Mountains and yet able to post this blog for my mom an ocean away. Happy birthday, Ami.
The Turkish word for mother is Anne. What a beautiful sound! I love you, my Anne.
I wish I could wish her, but we are driving through the Taurus Mountains in Turkey from Alanya to Konya and then on to Cappadocia. The road snakes through the pine covered mountains, the tops of which are rocky and naked. I feel a little car sick, not enough though, to not notice the fruit stalls on the side of the road.
"Let's stop at the next one," I suggest to Nasir from the back seat of the car - my front seat spot having been commandeered by our 14 year old.
Nasir gets out to translate for me but the shop keeper speaks fluent English. I feel ashamed. I wish I could speak his language the way Nasir does. I buy half a dozen baby bananas. Alanya was full of banana plantations so I know the fruit is fresh. I splurge on green figs buying a full dozen. I am sad. I wish I could share these figs with my cousin who loves them as much as I do. We just parted company an hour back. She is heading back to San Francisco with her family. We had an amazing two weeks together but my heart is greedy and can't have enough. I miss her, and her beautiful family. I miss my sister and her crazy pack. If we were still together, I would have opened my heart and bought two dozen figs for the 14 of us. Fine. I won't lie. I would still buy just a dozen.
At the back of the stall, I spy bottles of myriad colours; olive oil, jams, honey, honey comb, and marmalades. I pick up a bottle.
"What's this?"
"Fig jam. My mother made it."
I buy it for my mother. I tell him it's my mother's birthday. I like this gift - this jam made by this polite shop keeper's mother will in five days fly across the Atlantic to find it's place on my mother's breakfast table.
And me, still slightly car sick on the Taurus Mountains and yet able to post this blog for my mom an ocean away. Happy birthday, Ami.
The Turkish word for mother is Anne. What a beautiful sound! I love you, my Anne.