Ali, are you okay? (April 2010)

Trivial Pursuit
Shaking old habits by Ali Imran K.

It appears that there is not one, but two cocktail shakers sitting on the kitchen counter. Either somebody is a raging alcoholic or just has one too many friends to entertain. Since this household is wholesomely Muslim, I rule out the former (though you never know). Also, note that they are of the plastic variety and only part translucent, which is very “common” if you ask me, but perhaps somebody is rather clumsy when it comes to mixing drinks or just a rookie in the cocktail scene. Yes, it looked rather misplaced, like a jockstrap in the girl’s locker room, though if I could take a stab at it, I knew exactly who brought it in and I would love to hear the story on how it got here in the first place.

If there ever was a time when the shaker(s) would be put to use, it’d be during dinner.  So I waited with eyes darting between both suspects, making silent speculations as to who would make the first mad dash towards them. “So you bought them?” I asked my mother. “Somebody was selling them at your dad’s hospital. Mine’s free though because it came as a gift with your aunt’s wild honey purchase. I bought the second box” she explained. “You do know that that’s going to end up collecting dust”. But she pretended she couldn’t hear me and proceeded to shake a drink out violently for my dad.  “It really is good, Imran! You should try!” and I did, if only to satisfy my curiosity. It wasn’t offensive, in fact, it was quite tasty, but not something you would rush home to, like Froyo or bubble tea. A concoction of wild honey (surprise!) and dragon fruit, it came in sachets, not powdery but paste-y. You squeeze every slow liquid out of its bright green packaging into the shaker, filled with ice, I would imagine crushed or otherwise, topped off with water and shake just as you would with a real cocktail shaker.

I’m starting to think that my mother has a penchant for shakers because mind you, this isn’t the first time anything of the sort has entered our house. The last piece of equipment I saw her bring back was a white topped flask which she used to shake her supplements in, much like the ones I use for my protein shakes, only hers contains some bone strengthening formula. Suffice to say, that that thing is now out of sight and forgotten, which I am sure is at the back of the cupboard, rotting somewhere. She has also, in her attempt to lose weight, bought a huge can of oats and cereal, which to me, looked more like hamster pellets than anything suitable for human consumption. That too was barely touched, though luckily for her I quite enjoy bird food.

There wasn’t at least one glass on the table without that drink at mealtimes, and although she has offered to shake one for me on numerous occasions, I politely declined. It has turned into an obsession of some sort- my mother and her amazing discovery of shaken dragon fruit-honey beverages that she whips one up at every chance she gets. There was one for my sister who was back in town for a holiday as a welcoming drink, one for our plumber who popped by to settle his bill and there was even once where she shook two at one go-no easy feat, I assure you. With a little bit of practise, I’d expect her to flip the shaker behind her back, let it do a few somersaults and then catch it with her other hand. I think she even called some of her friends over to sample this delectable drink claiming she knows “just the thing!” to quench parched throats.

I never thought of my mother as one to succumb to trivia, but looking back, our lives have been filled with inanimate objects which have hardly ever been touched. She bought a vacuum cleaner-like apparatus once, which instead of inhaling anything, it sprouts steam. I recall a faded edged picture of a woman in the pamphlet with blonde Farah Fawcett like curls, head tilted, smiling widely, apparently enjoying the steamer like sauna in her shower. Convinced by this, my mom bought the gargantuan machine which was then only used halfway to clean a shower screen before she got tired prepping it up. So like our treadmill, the ‘easy-peasy’ salad maker and the wondrous non-stick sandwich toaster, it has been reserved a first class spot underneath the closet, never to be seen again until space was needed.

But I quite enjoy these little outbursts of rabid consumerism from my mother. It’s humorously endearing and I indulge her sometimes, which in some strange way connects us even deeper. After all, people often say that you grow up to be just like your parents and if karma is a living b****h, I think I had better start playing nice.