The Shelter of Miracles
This small house hid in the middle of the forest in a distant village of North Kazakhstan. There, a father and his five children lived in their own tiny world, enjoying the clean air, growing food themselves and rejecting the digital world. My close friend, Kamilla, was one of those children. And every year, since I turned fifteen, I escaped from suffocating vanity of the city to visit her.
My nineteenth summer wasn’t an exception. An old battered bus dropped me close to the forest and I kept walking off-road for a while. Finally, I pulled the wooden front door. As it slowly opened, the tart smell of spices and fresh bread penetrated into my nose. In a moment, Kamilla jumped out from the corner and embraced me. As always, the sun glares tangled in her dark hair and the smile inhabited her hazel eyes.
After a long hug she let me drop my heavy backpack and step inside. There, everyone sat around the set kitchen table, waiting for me. Kamilla always said — the first day I was a guest, so I wasn’t allowed to help cooking or cleaning. But on the next day, I became a full member of the family, in other words, I started to share all the responsibilities in the house.
This time, to celebrate my arrival, father decided to perform a special cooking ritual. For all years, it was the first time when he wanted to cook something for me, so I was in anticipation. Descending from Uigurs, the Chinese minority living close to the mountains of Eastern Kazakhstan, he picked one of their national dish — tukhum-sai. The eggs fried with vegetables and spices. He was the only person in the house who knew the traditional secret passed through generations in their family.
They believed — the more people get involved in the process, the tastier the meal would be.
It turned out, there was much more to the ceremony than just frying eggs. The meal included three different components which created a single masterpiece. The tukhum-sai was accompanied by the herbal tea and the fresh bread. Everything prepared by ourselves from beginning till end.
We started in the evening, the day before the ritual. All six of us gathered around the kitchen table. In silence, Kamilla took the jars out from the shelf and put them in front of us. The dim light of candles illuminated the dried green leaves and the tiny flowers behind the glass. These herbs were to be milled for tomorrow’s tea. I placed a small towel on the table and Kamilla put the herbs on it. Another child started rolling the towel tightly to compress the leaves. Then someone else took the herbal roulette and squeezed it, turning the plants into dust. The atmosphere of concentration, the shivering light together with the sweet smell of meadows, made me feel like an ancient alchemist practicing magic.
At the crack of dawn, I woke up from the rhythmical beating of tambourine, the father’s awakening song. Children started to hide their heads underneath the pillows, while I lied in my bed simply smiling. After all those years I would, finally, witness the process of cooking the bread.
Before the breakfast, we needed to make the dough and put it in the oven. First, we went to the coop to search for eggs. Then, Kamilla brought the flour from the larder. Children entered the room with a jar of a warm morning milk, immediately filling the room with their loud and happy voices. We mixed all the ingredients together and when the dough was ready, we put it into the heated oven. A couple of hours later, we took it out, wrapped in a towel, and left it to cool down.
Throughout the whole process, the unity of cooking together fascinated me. It required more effort to cook for so many people but, at the same time, everyone participated, turning the boring routine into a celebration. They believed — the more people get involved in the process, the tastier the meal would be. As the time flew fast in nature, the lunch approached. We hurried into the house to prepare the last component of the ritual — vegetables for the tukhum-sai.
Some of us collected green onions and garlic chives in the garden. Others, with red and running eyes, cut onions and tomatoes. When the ingredients were ready, the main character appeared. Father stepped into the room and asked us to leave. No one could see his secret alchemy — that was a law of the house. Sitting on the carpet in the living room, we were all dying of curiosity while the incredible smells floated from the kitchen.
In a while, father called me and Kamilla. We entered the room that seemed to be untouched. Only smell, lifting up from the covered frying pan, betrayed the perfect order. We started to set the table, throwing the curious glances at the pan occasionally. Together, we took a warm bread out from the towel, cut it in slices and placed them on the plate. Then, I brought the homemade salty butter from the fridge, while Kamilla brewed the herbal tea.
When everything was ready and all of us set around the table, father opened the lid. There, in a cloud of steam, rested the masterpiece. He put the fried egg to everyone. When I received my colorful small egg lying on a pillow of juicy vegetables, I felt incredibly happy. I took a mouthful of a hot dish and chewed it. The tart taste of summer filled my mouth. I closed my eyes, perceiving every shade. The beautiful sunsets, the infinite meadows and ever-green forests appeared before my sight.
When the tukhum-sai was over, I opened my eyes. The soft golden light penetrated into the room through the window. Everyone sat silently, cherishing the divinity of the moment.
