Nutty and nice.

I suppose, somewhere in we indentured-immigrants past, there was a man with a mean wife. One evening, in the old, bruka-down wooden logie where the man, he wife and family did dwell with plenty others, he did feel like showing he was the boss.

“Wife, what you cookin’ for dinner tonight?” he demand.

She turn to he and snarl, “You go get katahar tonight.” You getting nothing!

Had to be a’ incident like-a that. Otherwise, how you can explain why food so delightful can symbolize “nothing” today?

All this run through me mind as I sit on the stool, at the pink kitchen –table, cracking katahar seeds.  They taste like chestnut, my mother say. I eat so much, I feel big like Santa.

Katahar for Christmas.

I tell my mother the story I make up about the man and he wife, and maybe that is why katahar mean “nothing” today.

And she tell me a true one so sad, I could feel me heart pump tears into me blood.

In mammy young days, a neighbor-family across the backyard paling had a father mo’ mean than Scrooge.  Them neighbour-chil’ren used to go over to my grandparents yard to play.  And my mother, then 12 or 14 years old, used to bathe the chil’ren, de-louse them, make little dresses for them and feed them.

One Christmas, one o’ them neighbour-girl chile, five years old, announce with excitement to she mama, “Christmas ah come, daddy ah-go buy presents fo’ ahbeedees.”  Christmas is coming, daddy gon buy presents for we.

“Presents?” reply the mama, dragging out she voice in a cynical way...she suffer so much from the meanness of she husband. “Ahyuh go get katahar.” Presents? All of you gon get katahar. Nothing.

Katahar for coolies.

Crackin’ mo’ katahar seeds mo’ days later, rockin’ in the white wood and iron chair in the veranda, I feel shame.

I think…maybe there is another reason why katahar mean “nothing”.

Katahar curry musta been one o’ the favourite food of the post-indentured-immigrant, uneducated coolie-people - the impoverished, unpolished East Indian folk that better-off citizens scoff at.  They cut up the cabbage part…dig out the nuts to boil later…and curry the cabbage part, eat it with roti, tear into it with fingers, not a civilized spoon or knife and fork.

Rock, rock, in the rocking chair, contemplating all o’ this.  Shame wash down on me. 

I look into the bowl in me lap.  Mostly empty shells and a li’l bit o’ nuts remaining.  I console me conscience that mammy really did say she was happy with the few she had…

Gold, diamonds. And katahar.

Shame?

Nah, nah, don’t talk about shame when it comes to loving this common-man food.  Lemme tell you how bold and brazen you must be, and proud too, relishing it.

One fine morning, Cousin Lis, [when she was living in Guyana,] been perusing rings in the toppest jewellery store in town.

Suddenly she smell katahar curry.

“I smell katahar curry!” Them words fall from she beautiful lips as if she was saying look at this huge diamond. 

“My boss is having lunch in his office,” the sales-girl say.

Katahar curry?  This near?  Cousin Lis huge brown eyes grow mo’ big and bright like a shine-eye girl who get necklace encrusted with precious stones. “Oh my gosh oh my gosh tell him I love katahar curry.”

And before you could say, Hurry Harry, cook the curry, the ole man send out a small bowl of vegetarian katahar curry for Cousin Lis.