Our Singapore Kitchen

27 June, 2014
Lagos, Nigeria

We once lived in a house that was fine for all intents and purposes, but the kitchen left much to be desired: it had the tiniest one of any house I have ever seen, much to my wife's chagrin. I must admit, I, too, felt that it could have been quite a bit larger.

I look back at that house and wonder sometimes why a house would have such an essential room in such a small size, or, knowing that, why we ever bought the place to begin with.

Having recently made trips to Singapore I discovered that most flats there either have very small kitchens or have none at all. Residents of that island city-nation prefer to use their precious apartment space for things other than for the preparation of food, and so they eat out or take-out. Besides, eating out in Singapore is very inexpensive.

The joke there is:

Q: What does someone in Singapore make for dinner?

A: RESERVATIONS!!

We were not wealthy enough to be eating out all the time, but given the size of that itty-bitty kitchen, we often wished we could.

Having a family of two adults and three small children normally presents any young couple with an array of problems and situations. Add a very small kitchen and an aged father-in-law into the mix and the game changes again.

We called him PAPI. He was a gentle man who sought peace throughout his life, spoke his truth quietly, listening far more than speaking, and sought solace in his work and in tiny demitasses of strong Cuban coffee.

He worked with his hands. Unable to carry on his chosen trade of furniture-making in the United States, he was, however, able to make a decent living by reupholstering furniture.

Although his customers came to him strictly through word of mouth,
his workshop (our garage) was always full of sofas and easy chairs in various stages of repair.

Papi was a methodical person - one could say he was a slave to habit, so one could pinpoint with amazing accuracy where he would be and what he would be doing simply by looking at the clock.

But the clock tolled off the hour for all the rest of us as well. On a schoolday, we also had a routine, from which we rarely deviated.

We would all awake at about 6:30 A.M., and the house would go from a place of peaceful slumber to one of sheer pandemonium, as we all jostled for position using the bathrooms. While some were thus occupied, the others scurried about during the wait, looking for items of clothing, books, homework, and the like.

My wife had her place in all this: she would try to awake before the others and get started with breakfast, as well as making lunches for the kids.

From the first light of daybreak, our Singapore kitchen became the focal point of activity, and the little ones would be running in and out of it still looking for some misplaced item while dodging their mother, me, and each other in the skinny, narrow strip of room that passed for a kitchen at our house.

I am, at this point, emerging from a quick but invigorating morning shower and am getting dressed to start my day. Soon enough I, too, join the merry din of a new dawn, as I begin my morning struggles by entering the already crowded kitchenette bleary-eyed and yawning, but on a mission! I need to find my _________. (Fill in the blank with whatever you like. Whatever you may write there I am sure that at least ONE morning I haven't fumbled around the house looking for it.

Sorry, but I have not made mention of Papi, yet, but it is at the peak moment of activity and at the time of the highest number of people crowding into the kitchen when he walks quietly there to begin his morning.

He would then commence the alchemy and titration involved in making a small pot of Cuban coffee. It is a great deal of work - only to yield a mere thimbleful of dark, robust coffee that has enough caffein in it to jump-start a Chevy. The process takes awhile - and longer, still if you are Papi.

So the scene is set: tiny kitchen, husband, wife, two small boys, one small girl - all trying to get ready to go to school or work, and all five people are trying their level best to get everything done before they have to leave.

 In the midst of all this Bedlam walks Papi - the living image of Mahatma Ghandi, calmly walking in peace and tranquility amid a chaotic throng of thousands of shouting people, running to and fro in the streets.

Not only are we all trying to avoid colliding with each other while getting our respective deals done, but now we must avoid Papi, who is intently at work with his funnels, spoons, scoops, and other alchemist's paraphernalia.

With him there we have much less space now. The tinkling noise of him stirring the sugar in his metal Italian coffee pot joins the sunrise symphony of our little household.

Amid the last-minute clanking of plates, mugs, saucers, knives, forks, spoons, and so forth, being placed, or tossed, or falling into the sink, Papi's coffee has not begun to brew, yet there he stands like a sentinel, in the middle of the little kitchen, awaiting the bubbling whooshing sound from his beloved coffee pot telling him his wait is now over.

Very soon the appetizing smell of breakfast is joined by the aroma of the freshly-brewed espresso coffee. Papi pours it carefully into a porcelain demitasse, and finally takes a well-deserved sip of his dark brown elixir.

Then, just as the most powerful tornado subsides as quickly as it starts, the domestic "intranquility" abruptly ends as the school bus arrives and the three youngest members of the household quickly kiss their parents and grandfather and make a mad dash out the front door. Often enough the door reopens immediately thereafter as one of them has forgotten something - after all that fuss earlier.

The bus pulls off and now it is my turn to say my goodbyes as I grab my briefcase and head out for the rat-race. The house disappears in my rear-view mirror and I leave behind my frazzled wife to do what she can.

Papi by this time has just finished his long drink from a short cup. He places it into the sink and rinses it, then, with silence having fallen heavily once again upon our humble abode, he exits, stage left, for another hard day's work in silence, interrupted only by an occasional sip of coffee.



EPILOGUE:
I often wondered why Papi always came into the kitchen when everything was in turmoil. Eventually I came to the conclusion that he actually enjoyed the banter of the children and the excitement of the new day.

So did I.

Every once in awhile I think about those days - were they really so long ago?? Now I am the one walking into the tiny Singapore kitchen in the mornings to brew my coffee as my grandchildren scurry all about me looking for things and getting ready for their school day.

Sometimes my mind goes back to another day long ago. I can almost hear the clink-clink of the stirring spoon as Papi dissolved the sugar. I can almost hear the bubbling whoosh of air escaping from the coffee pot, smell that good Cuban coffee, and hear him announce, using his own unique expression, that the coffee was finished brewing when he'd say: "¡Yá colóco!*

Today the rising sun shines brightly through the kitchen window. I look at the pot: the coffee has brewed. I smell the wonderful aroma.

A new day has begun!


*colar is Spanish for strain, as coffee is strained through filter paper. To say "Yá coló" would mean "It's already strained," or, in other words, coffee's ready.