Wednesday, 1 April 2026

Pois et Blanche main …petite histoire de Nathalie Andrews - guest post


 

Bientôt dans le train, direction la Corrèze pour une quinzaine tranquille, loin du boulot, des jérémiades de mes parents, bref loin de tout ça !!

Je sortais du Vieux Campeur, portant une doudoune jaune citron (de quoi filer la jaunisse aux chasseurs locaux) et des grosses chaussures de marche direction la gare d’Austerlitz…quand retentit une voix grave qui appelait « Hélène, hou hou ». Celle de Pierre-Yves Gustin, surnommé « Pois ». En me retournant, je le vis un peu essoufflé mais souriant comme dans mon souvenir.

« Hélène, mais quelle surprise, ça fait combien d’années ? »

« Heu…30 ans, depuis notre terminale, quand mon père a été muté à Paris, et toi qu’es-tu devenu ? »

« Moi, j’ai repris les conserves Gustin, les carottes, petits pois & C°, à défaut de l’épanouir ça nourrit son homme. Et toi, Blanche main, pédiatre comme prévu ? »

« Non, Pois, avec ma main artificielle, il m’a gentiment été dit que je ferai peur aux enfants, alors je suis gériatre. Les vieux ont la vue basse ou comprennent mieux les blessures des autres ! »

« Dur, dur, dit Pierre-Yves, quelle saleté cet accident avec le hachoir de ton grand-père charcutier »

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They say don't cry over spilled milk, yet I did - Chapter 15 - The Chronicles of the Youngest Child

 




In India, boiling milk is a routine task, often entrusted to whoever is at home. As a child, it feels like an easy responsibility, until you learn how quickly inattention can turn into an unforgettable mistake.  

One day when I was around 11 years old, my mother put the milk in a vessel to boil. It was time for her to leave with my father on her daily evening routine and did not want to wait till the milk had boiled. So she walked down from the third floor to the second in our building and met me at my friend's apartment and asked me to watch over the flame. I had an extra set of keys, and she told me she had set the burner on a very low flame and I would have to go and switch off the gas in about 15 minutes.

I was surprised that my Amma gave me those instructions because she usually never did such things. She was a fiercely independent woman and didn't like me touching much in her kitchen. I was happy that she actually gave me a task like that and promised to go home in 15 minutes. I got back to doing or playing whatever it was that I was doing just before she came and spoke to me. Obviously what shouldn't have happened did. I completely forgot that I was supposed to go home and switch off the gas. About more than an hour later, I suddenly remembered what I had promised to do. I felt physically sick, as I was very afraid of what my mother would do to me if she knew I had forgotten. But I had to give up that frightful thought with the next one that was equally horrifying. I needed to go upstairs and see what had happened to the milk. 

When I reached my home, the living room was filled with smoke. There was a horrible smell that filled my lungs as I rushed through the living room through the corridor and the inner room and finally reached the converted balcony kitchen and stared at the stove. There stood a black vessel because all the milk had evaporated and what remained was a black mess. I switched off the gas and stood there in petrified terror, thinking how and what I would do to rectify the problem. There were a lot of dark images, as dark as that pot that flashed through my head. My first instinct was to clean the pot. Luckily, I didn't go and pick it up with my hands. I somehow knew I would have to wait for it to cool down before trying to wash it.

Sometimes in life, we have these tiny moments of long thought that last a few seconds and these long minutes of time in which no thought seems to make any sense. They both exist at the same moment of time.  I remember waiting anxiously for the pot to cool, the dread of my Amma’s inevitable return bubbling in my mind. Just as the dark bubbles in the simmering pot continued.

#childhoodstories #childhoodmemories #childrensbooks #kidslife #memories #lifememories

Like this story?

Browse through the previous ones in The Chronicles of the Youngest Child here





The pen is mightier than a sword -Chapter 14 - The Chronicles of the Youngest Child


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