Dish with No Name
This is just something I found while cleaning through my stack of college. It was something I wrote for my English class. We were told to write a 3-paragraph essay about a personal childhood experience. Here it goes.
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It was the white house at the corner of the street where a special dish of greens was often served. This dish was of no name and requires no specific ingredients and procedure. It only demands for one's ingenuity and sense of adventure.
On a fine afternoon, my sister, my aunt and I would go searching for leaves and flowers through grandma's garden that encircles the house. One would find a tall Indian mango tree situated at the rightmost part of the lawn. A number of pots surround the roots and a mixture of stones and rocks that would make little children trip and fall on their knees. There were these circular bushes that housed large number of red and pink flowers that we made into bracelets and necklaces. On the side of the house are painted purple leaves that escorted you to the back, where plants cling to the perimeter wall. One would find a rainbow of orchids and mushrooms that grew on the trunk of another mango tree. The side of the house was lined with Aloe vera plants that gave off this minty scent.
We cut and we pick the plants to our preferences, and after a journey of vista around nature, we would gather all the leafage and set up our tea cups and saucers. We would fill a large bowl with water. To this, we add the crushed and cut leaves. It was obvious how our faces lit up with amazement as the water begins to acquire color. I could remember the white extract that seeps through the leaves and twigs, the pristine aroma from the Aloe vera, the colored and floral juices from the Gumamela, and not to mention the ants that contaminate out delicacy. The imaginary slurping of this soup takes place on a square, vintage outdoor table that has turned dirty white through time. The dish is poured in tea cups and is served to all those who would want to join. Sometimes, my older brother would come sit with us girls. Then, the four of us would pretend to sip this concoction. But, that was years ago, and now, this dish is nothing but a memory stored in our ripened minds.
