“I really feel like curry” she says from the living room, which serves also as my bedroom and a study. The statement hits me as I’m standing by the cooker stirring an undefined brownish sort of sauce with what is the leftover chicken. I can’t believe my ears. Did my child just say that? The child, who hates curry? The child, who is an explosive mix of life threatening food allergies and stubborn fussiness?
“I do feel like curry. With rice, please.” she repeats. Not sure if she’s reading my mind or remembers my half deafness but I go over and kiss her forehead anyway. Give thanks.