Family recipe

we were a simmering pot, slowly brought to a boil. As temperatures rose, we overflowed with years of the unaddressed spilling into the fire. sizzling, burning our fingers on past mistakes and watching blisters swell. our attention was drawn to previous scars. ones that were festering wounds waiting to be tended to. the tissue was thick and ugly. bulging from the seams where old and new skin meet. we tried to stay civil, careful not to cut each other with rusted knives sitting by the kitchen sink. blame fell like mince falls too the ground off an over crowded cutting board. we couldn’t mask the flavour of resentment. they were as pronounced as distinctly identifiable taste of surinamese cooking. we served looks and passed judgment with coffee and tea. sincerity was a performed obligation to get through the meal. there was no we. only you and I and attempts at being us, but WE were far removed from the conversations we were having. the ones that needed to happen. we were a pot of food taken off the stove too soon. too early for reconciliation. too fragile for carry the hatchet we wanted to bury. we were distracted by nostalgia and wishful thinking that the future could be better. What does it take to re-write a recipe? would changing the ingredients affect the integrity of the dish? would you have to erase the original maker? substitutes the familiar taste of home? What if the dish would be better? Can we muster up the patience to test and re-try? to adjust and be flexible on the fly? welcome new ideas, hands and techniques? would we dare to break tradition to create a renewed, perfectly balanced dish?