A spiritual heart

One of my first memories is sitting on my mother’s knee while she mashed rice and delicately spiced fish between her fingers on a steel plate. Quickly, she formed small balls with which to feed me. I remember the glint of the stainless steel in the Skelmersdale sunshine, the deftness of her fingers and the speed and the purpose with which she gently pushed the morsel past my lips. This confident haste made the interaction somewhat non-negotiable. There are not many Asian babies who require the choo choo train spoon into the tunnel routine. For so many, including myself, it is rice that is the first taste of a mother’s love.