A Polish nanny who didn't know English, the first to see through my secret hidden in the food.-10
Scent of Mint
Monday, stepping into the kitchen, a different smell hits. Mint, but not toothpaste or candy mint. Fresher, sharper, like just pulled from soil. Marta is by the stove. A small pot simmers, water bubbling fiercely over green leaves. She sees me, gestures with the knife towards the pot. "Drink," she says. "Good for you." "What is it?" "Mint. Polish mint." She ladles pale green liquid into a bowl, hands it to me.
Steam hits my face; that cool, potent scent pushes deep into my sinuses. I sip. Hot liquid carrying intense mint floods my throat, surges to the top of my head. "Help sleep," she says, wiping her hands. "Natural." "Thank you, I'll try it." She turns back to chopping. I wait until her back is turned, dump the rest down the drain. Green water swirls away, leaving the persistent scent of mint.
Tremors
My hand shook. Pouring water into the cup, the kettle suddenly wobbled. Water splashed, pooling on the countertop. I stared at the puddle. Hand still shaking. Set the kettle down; base clacked loudly on the stone. Marta walked in. Saw the water, then saw my hand. I didn't hide it; let it hang by my side, fingers twitching on their own. She said nothing.
Grabbed a cloth from the rack, wiped the counter dry. Then handed me a folded dry towel. Reaching for it, my hand jerked; the towel almost fell. She reached out, grasped my trembling hand firmly. Her hand dry, skin rough, but steady. Held it tight. Five seconds, maybe. Slowly, the shaking subsided. She released my hand, took the towel back, turned and left. My hand stayed suspended mid-air, the skin where she held it strangely warm.
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Monday, stepping into the kitchen, a different smell hits. Mint, but not toothpaste or candy mint. Fresher, sharper, like just pulled from soil. Marta is by the stove. A small pot simmers, water bubbling fiercely over green leaves. She sees me, gestures with the knife towards the pot. "Drink," she says. "Good for you." "What is it?" "Mint. Polish mint." She ladles pale green liquid into a bowl, hands it to me.
Steam hits my face; that cool, potent scent pushes deep into my sinuses. I sip. Hot liquid carrying intense mint floods my throat, surges to the top of my head. "Help sleep," she says, wiping her hands. "Natural." "Thank you, I'll try it." She turns back to chopping. I wait until her back is turned, dump the rest down the drain. Green water swirls away, leaving the persistent scent of mint.
Tremors
My hand shook. Pouring water into the cup, the kettle suddenly wobbled. Water splashed, pooling on the countertop. I stared at the puddle. Hand still shaking. Set the kettle down; base clacked loudly on the stone. Marta walked in. Saw the water, then saw my hand. I didn't hide it; let it hang by my side, fingers twitching on their own. She said nothing.
Grabbed a cloth from the rack, wiped the counter dry. Then handed me a folded dry towel. Reaching for it, my hand jerked; the towel almost fell. She reached out, grasped my trembling hand firmly. Her hand dry, skin rough, but steady. Held it tight. Five seconds, maybe. Slowly, the shaking subsided. She released my hand, took the towel back, turned and left. My hand stayed suspended mid-air, the skin where she held it strangely warm.
NEXT >>