Peace and Rice

Turmeric

Stephanie Groot

Number of Words 647



Sometimes, when I am cooking, I reach a state of relaxation that is almost like meditation. This happens especially when I cook a well-used and loved recipe. While I cook, my mind replays meaningful events or plans future activities. Today I am cooking Nasi Kunig and Babi satays and juxtaposing ideas of race from halfway around the world and almost a lifetime ago.



First I cook the rice that I soaked and am now stirring in a pan with oil. The aroma of the spices, coriander and cumin fills the air. Tumeric has no scent; it only provides the golden yellow color. My father-in-law comes into the kitchen, drawn there by the scent of the spices and the calmness that overcomes me as I cook this dish. He sits quietly at the island and watches me. His face is a mask of wrinkles, darkened by the sun, and toughened by wind and smoking. For a moment he holds his up his head with his gnarled hands, closes his eyes, and sucks in the spice laden air from the rice.



I stir in the cinnamon stick, cloves, and salaam blad.



My father-in-law tells me that the rice I make is called the King’s Rice, Nasi Kunig in Indonesian. I nod and smile; he’s told me this at least a thousand times. Each time, I acknowledge his comment without complaint.



As I reach for the cinnamon sticks, my necklace flashes in the sunlight. It is made of heavy silver beads. My father-in-law reminds me that the chief of the tribe, from the village on Sulawesi, presented the necklace to his mother. Every time I take the necklace from its box I see the small photo of the chief and his wife and I say a quick prayer of thanks to their memories. They hid and protected my Dutch 7-year-old father-in-law, his sister, and his mother from the Japanese who had already taken his father. Eventually, the Japanese found them. This necklace was all that was left after the POW camp and World War II.



I pour in the stock and coconut milk.



My father-in-law knows he isn’t Indonesian, but that’s where he was born and lived until he was nearly a man. The food brings him home. The kitchen fills with the aroma of musky coconut and spices.



After a while, my father-in-law, now 75, murmurs that he believes the Japanese soldiers killed his father the day they took him away. The villagers found the bodies of the other White men that were taken.



But my thoughts are dwelling on what I’d heard the just the other day and the Tea Party. The Kentucky Republican nominee for the senate would like to repeal the Civil Rights Act of 1964. He believes the free market will force racial harmony and equality. My children, African-American and White (Dutch) are running around playing with their Caucasian Dad. The Tea Party proclaims it isn’t racist then denies the President is American and supports the Citizenship law in Arizona.



What is the price of color? To this day, my parents shake with emotion when they recall the deprivations that had to endure. My father-in-law stifles his emotions. I remember the bold-faced comments, and sneering looks. What of my children? They are oblivious, for now, of their place in this world. They know no boundaries based on color. I am angry and sad knowing they have learned about this man running for office or hear the diatribes from the Tea Party.



I remember reading somewhere that some Jewish people voted for Hitler because they liked the structure and order he commanded. They thought he’d tone down the racist over tones. I decide I can no longer be silent.



I turn down the heat to very low and place the top on the pan of rice.  Now I start to make the satay.  I pickup the cubes of meat and slide them down the skewer.