too strong, or rotten.
“Since when did you become a professional smeller?” Materena isn’t speaking in a low voice anymore.
“Give your own mother eau de cologne,” Pito snaps back. “Mama, she’s not getting eau de cologne.”
Materena comes up with the idea of a jar filled with mints for Mama Roti to munch on when she reads the Bible, watches the
TV, or rests on the mat. She can also use the jar to store something else. But, in Pito’s opinion, his mother much prefers
to munch on Chinese lollies, and, anyway, she’s got jars galore as it is, and another jar she really doesn’t need.
“How about that crystal wineglass?” Materena is losing hope.
“That wineglass is only going to last one day in Mama’s hands. Mama, she breaks everything.”
Fed up, Materena suggests a frying pan—as a joke.
Pito’s eyes light up. “Now you’re talking, woman.”
He did notice that the last time he was at his mother’s house, her frying pan didn’t have a handle. In fact, she burned her
hand with that frying pan—she showed him the scar. Mama Roti had also showed Materena the scar on her hand, but she’d said
it happened when she took the baking dish out of the oven.
Pito grabs a frying pan. It is a 100 percent stainless-steel frying pan, like Materena’s, except that it is smaller. Materena
advises him to get a bigger size.
“Mama only needs a small size. She doesn’t use the frying pan heaps,” Pito says.
Materena insists on the family-size frying pan and Pito wants to know why she’s insisting on a family-size when he told her
his mama doesn’t use the frying pan heaps. But Materena isn’t going to tell Pito that he cannot give his mama a frying pan
that is smaller than Materena’s frying pan, because Mama Roti would sulk and go on and on and on about how she’d suffered
for two whole days pushing Pito into this world.
Pito wouldn’t understand this delicate situation. He’d most likely say, “Ah, you women. You’re so complicated.”
Materena grabs the small-size frying pan out of Pito’s hands and puts it back on the shelf. Then she gets the family-size
frying pan and gives it to Pito.
“When the kids go visit your mama,” Materena says, “and they feel like an omelette, Mama Roti can make a big omelette. It’ll
be easier for her. Plus, the price difference isn’t great.”
Pito shakes his head like Materena’s explanation is too much to comprehend. “My mama, she gets a bigger frying pan than my
wife. I thought it was supposed to be the contrary.”
Materena grins. “Eh? I’m your wife these days? It’s not ‘woman’ anymore?”
But Pito is already heading toward the cash register. He’s never ever called Materena “wife.” He calls her Materena or “woman.”
Pito sometimes calls Materena Mama, but she always tells him to keep that name for his own mama.
“Wife”! Not once!
It’s been two weeks since Pito has proposed, and, in Materena’s opinion, Pito is trying to get used to the idea of being married,
for a man simply doesn’t call his woman “wife” unless he secretly wishes that she
were
his wife.
Materena is still grinning when they get outside the shopping center.
“Why are you grinning?” asks Pito.
“I’m just happy about Mama Roti’s birthday present,” Materena replies.
“
Ah oui,
” Pito says. “Mama, she’s not going to believe her eyes.”
“Happy birthday, Mama.”
Pito gives his mama her present. He’s wrapped it in newspaper. Mama Roti presses both hands on her chest and acts surprised.
She rips the newspaper, she rips the box (it’s just a box, no relation to the gift), all the while smiling and looking at
her son like he tricked her.
She sees the frying pan and for a moment it is not clear what her reaction is going to be. She seems to be searching for the
right words to say.
Finally. “A frying pan! How did you know I needed a frying pan! Now I can throw the old one in the
“Since when did you become a professional smeller?” Materena isn’t speaking in a low voice anymore.
“Give your own mother eau de cologne,” Pito snaps back. “Mama, she’s not getting eau de cologne.”
Materena comes up with the idea of a jar filled with mints for Mama Roti to munch on when she reads the Bible, watches the
TV, or rests on the mat. She can also use the jar to store something else. But, in Pito’s opinion, his mother much prefers
to munch on Chinese lollies, and, anyway, she’s got jars galore as it is, and another jar she really doesn’t need.
“How about that crystal wineglass?” Materena is losing hope.
“That wineglass is only going to last one day in Mama’s hands. Mama, she breaks everything.”
Fed up, Materena suggests a frying pan—as a joke.
Pito’s eyes light up. “Now you’re talking, woman.”
He did notice that the last time he was at his mother’s house, her frying pan didn’t have a handle. In fact, she burned her
hand with that frying pan—she showed him the scar. Mama Roti had also showed Materena the scar on her hand, but she’d said
it happened when she took the baking dish out of the oven.
Pito grabs a frying pan. It is a 100 percent stainless-steel frying pan, like Materena’s, except that it is smaller. Materena
advises him to get a bigger size.
“Mama only needs a small size. She doesn’t use the frying pan heaps,” Pito says.
Materena insists on the family-size frying pan and Pito wants to know why she’s insisting on a family-size when he told her
his mama doesn’t use the frying pan heaps. But Materena isn’t going to tell Pito that he cannot give his mama a frying pan
that is smaller than Materena’s frying pan, because Mama Roti would sulk and go on and on and on about how she’d suffered
for two whole days pushing Pito into this world.
Pito wouldn’t understand this delicate situation. He’d most likely say, “Ah, you women. You’re so complicated.”
Materena grabs the small-size frying pan out of Pito’s hands and puts it back on the shelf. Then she gets the family-size
frying pan and gives it to Pito.
“When the kids go visit your mama,” Materena says, “and they feel like an omelette, Mama Roti can make a big omelette. It’ll
be easier for her. Plus, the price difference isn’t great.”
Pito shakes his head like Materena’s explanation is too much to comprehend. “My mama, she gets a bigger frying pan than my
wife. I thought it was supposed to be the contrary.”
Materena grins. “Eh? I’m your wife these days? It’s not ‘woman’ anymore?”
But Pito is already heading toward the cash register. He’s never ever called Materena “wife.” He calls her Materena or “woman.”
Pito sometimes calls Materena Mama, but she always tells him to keep that name for his own mama.
“Wife”! Not once!
It’s been two weeks since Pito has proposed, and, in Materena’s opinion, Pito is trying to get used to the idea of being married,
for a man simply doesn’t call his woman “wife” unless he secretly wishes that she
were
his wife.
Materena is still grinning when they get outside the shopping center.
“Why are you grinning?” asks Pito.
“I’m just happy about Mama Roti’s birthday present,” Materena replies.
“
Ah oui,
” Pito says. “Mama, she’s not going to believe her eyes.”
“Happy birthday, Mama.”
Pito gives his mama her present. He’s wrapped it in newspaper. Mama Roti presses both hands on her chest and acts surprised.
She rips the newspaper, she rips the box (it’s just a box, no relation to the gift), all the while smiling and looking at
her son like he tricked her.
She sees the frying pan and for a moment it is not clear what her reaction is going to be. She seems to be searching for the
right words to say.
Finally. “A frying pan! How did you know I needed a frying pan! Now I can throw the old one in the
Similar Books
