Happy Birthday Sweetie

She insisted on Italian. Every birthday. We had considered other choices, as we do every year, and eventually settled for Italian, as we do every year.

The mushrooms were sizzling in the butter, all glistening and sparkling. Like her brown, velvet sweater. It was her very first sweater. She'd hated it. Scratched her at her armpits. But she wore it, uncomplainingly, till she outgrew it when she reached 5. She was a good girl. I turned to study the minced garlic. My husband was never very good at chopping garlic. All different shapes and sizes. But not so this time. They do say practice makes perfect. And 18 years is good practice.

The pasta had come to a boil already and my tension too. She won't like it if it's overdone. It needs to be perfect, al dente. Just another two minutes.

"Just another two minutes mama"

How many mornings have I heard that line. Whispered in her young, girly voice, still thick with sleep. She was never an early waker. Two minutes would invariably turn into 20. I'd set the alarm for 5:50 instead of the agreed 6:10. She was 9 when she finally latched onto my trick. I remember laughing at her indignation but being slightly relieved. She'd finally learnt to read time.

"Is the pasta done?" My husband's gruff voice brought me out of my reverie. His voice had always been rough. It never suited his short, stump body of 5'7. She and I would joke about how "dad may not be seen, but damn he's always heard". But that was uncalled for, from her part at least, since his voice invariably mellowed down when he spoke to her. His baby, darling, sweetheart, flowed like music. Even I wasn't privy to that. The first time her name sounded perfect to me, was when he said it over the hospital bed. Clutching her to his chest, he'd whispered into her ears, "Cataleya". I hadn't been so sure of the name, till that moment. He adores her too much. Left all the disciplining to me. It was with me that she would fight and get teary. With him, it was all butter and honey. Papa's girl. She'd decided that on her own. One day she'd come home from school and shown me her "Essay for the day". The topic - "Write about yourself in 300 words". Her title - "Papa's girl". I was quite irritated. But at 10, she couldn't sense why.

Yes, the pasta was done. I quickly streamed it and washed it in cold water. It must not stick. No excuses and mistakes today. I dribbled a luxurious amount of Olive oil over it.

"Dribbling? What's that?"

"Oh mama, basketball! Gosh!"

She was 12 when she joined the school team. I must admit I was shocked. There was nothing very sporty about her. She'd never participated in races or matches before. Quite unprecedented. Then it struck me.

"Is Andrew on the team?"

Her eyes darted to mine.

"On the boys team Ma. Of course, practice happens together"

A little too offhand for me.

"Well, that's good for you then isn't it."

"What does that mean"

But I'd caught the blush and quiver by then. Wasn't 12 a bit too young for this sort of thing. I wondered if I should set any ground rules, then decided against it. She was a good girl.

I poured the fresh cream into the mushrooms and garlic. Sprinkled chilly flakes and oregano in minute quantities.

"I like it subtle Ma"

I had been surprised to hear a 13 year old talk about subtlety of taste. Than I'd realized she was hooked onto MasterChef. No wonder. I have to concede though, her taste was indeed subtle. She liked to taste the cream in white pasta, the tomatoes in red, the spinach in my baked casserole, the eggplant in lasagna.

"The basic taste Ma. That must lend the strongest flavor".

Quite the gourmet girl.

She went on to win 23 cooking competitions. Who knows, she may have had a chance on that MasterChef someday.

The smell of freshly baked bread filled the kitchen as my husband opened the oven. It looked just right. Crispy but fluffy. Just how she likes it. Her first cooking experiment had been bread. Most 15 year olds make cupcakes and pastries for Valentine's Day and here she was, asking me the recipe to plain bread. That's what Andrew had wanted. You see, he was making jam. His first experiment too. The bread came out too stiff and the jam, too sweet. As my husband and I sat enjoying the leftovers she brought home for us, I remember thinking, that no bread and jam had tasted so good before. What a perfect combination.

She had grown up. And so beautifully. Still, I missed the innocent, naïve thing that asked me why women wear red when they go on dates. The night, conflicted by emotions of yearning and resignation, had bred an aching peace into me, an ache that would never leave.

"You've grown up too you know... as a mother"

My husband was right. I was proud of myself.

This birthday was special. 21st. By our family's rules, she could have alcohol today. So I took out our tall crystal wine glasses. My husband thought Baileys crème would be a classy first drink. Or should we do Champagne? A little too pompous for my taste but why not. It was just 3 of us. I set the China out. Pink China. She bought it for us with her first salary. She'd not told us she was looking for work. I'd wanted her to go to culinary college straight out of school but she'd made other plans. She wasn't having us pay the whole amount. I had been prepared for an unprofessional, minimum wage joint that would recruit an 18 year old just out of school but the petite, snug little restaurant with "admission only by reservation" had me wondering if I'd underestimated her. With the smell of Basil and Parsley intoxicating my senses, I'd allowed myself the right to expect great things from her. I'd closed my eyes and seen her become a head chef, of a Michelin starred restaurant. I'd vaguely wished she had something other than her rusted bicycle to commute her to such exclusivity.

"Shall we start?"

I nodded. We gazed at her chair, empty and untouched, as we sang her birthday song. It had been that way for 3 years now. But we'd decided to keep singing.