Fried eggplant could easily change your life. I mean this sincerely. From the gentle crackling of the oil in the pan to the hearty crunch of sea salt being ground over the steaming rounds of golden goodness, the process of frying eggplant is something that breathes love into a home.
As for last night, it breathed love into me. One of my most selfish pleasures is seeing someone's reaction after tasting something I cooked. Each member of the family took their first bite at different times while I stood, fork in hand, over the frying pan (smug smile tucked neatly beneath my tongue). The eggplant was good. Damn good, actually. But I already knew this. There are some things I simply know how to cook. Yet being able to offer a little taste of something delicious to people I hardly know made the knowledge of just how good the eggplant was fade to black. We all stood in the kitchen in silence, me in front of the fryer, the rest of them scattered around the table, chewing.
I picked up a slice that had cooled enough, gave a gentle blow just in case, and took a bite, wondering if it would be as good as my mother's. The familiar taste of home, the scent of my mother's perfume, the sound of baseball on the television, and the click of the dog's nails on the kitchen tile came crashing into my ears and up my nose with such intensity that I closed my eyes. I chewed. And took another bite.
The next two months of my life could be spent well without me ever approaching my real reason for coming here. Do you ever realize how much of your family history you just don't know? I do. All the time.
My father's side of the family is a total mystery to me. His father died before my dad even met my mother. His mother, Adele, died three months after I was born. His brother Jordan died 3 days after his 50th birthday. He and his two older brothers who are still alive rarely talk, if ever. I have cousins I never see.
But more than anything, I have stories I've never heard. Or told.
Caron, the mother of the Helfner family and captain of this ship of crazies, is the daughter of Eleanor. Eleanor, is the sister of Adele, my grandmother. Do you follow? Of all the nieces in the Kessler family, Caron was closest with my grandmother. She is one of the few remaining relatives who knows the stories. But with the signature Kessler flare for drama and embellishment, who knows what is real and what is fake?
So many of us remember certain situations according to the lens of our own individual eye. This doesn't make us liars, it makes us human. And talking about things that happened 40 years ago can't possibly be crystal clear.
I have decided that no matter how dramatic, perverted, cruel, or crass these stories end up being, I will reveal them on this blog. Almost all these people are dead anyway, so what can it hurt?
Maybe I should change the title of my blog to "Identity Crisis."
I'm glad you're here. Whoever you are. Someone should know the story of my family.
They're a dying breed.
-Ali
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