Before the bells, before the Mass,
before the star remembers Bethlehem,
there is this—
snow-white Appam batter waiting through the night,
and a mother’s heart that does not sleep.
More anxious than childbirth
is the question whispered to the dark:
Will the maavu rise?
Will it be soft,
or be stubborn like kavalamadal?
Before Appa stops the scooter Amma jumps out
white saree thrown on the bed,
bare feet running to the kitchen,
a spoon of sugar,
a daring dust of baking soda,
faith mixed with fear.
The fire is lit.
Snow-white maavu pours onto the appachatty.
A perfect circle drawn—
a 360-degree swirl.
The lid closes.
Time holds its breath.
That wait—
like a newborn appearing.
The lid lifts.
Steam escapes.
Gold lace forms its halo.
Appa is already there.
Amma’s two fingers lift the first appam.
Appa’s two fingers take it.
He folds. Tears.
One half disappears into his mouth.
All eyes on his face.
If the other half returns to the steel plate,
amma curses the toddy, the rice,
the pounding, the mixing,
and all of us who hurried her.
If it vanishes—
production begins like a festival procession,
swift, sure, unstoppable.
The first feast is at the paathakam.
Later, stew finds its place on the table,
and breakfast becomes ceremony.
Today, the lace came right.
And with it came my—
ammas, appas,
and valiammachis’ blessings
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