The day of making chapatis was the best day of all. My brothers were all so nice to me, they could have washed my feet if I asked them to. Each one of them hoped I could sneak them a chapo from the first batch that rolled off the ‘production line’ something my mother would not have approved. I was their only hope of having that first taste of chapo, a delicacy they had missed for months.
I relished that attention and I milked it properly. That was my chance of making my demands known, and my brothers obliged forthwith. I had the power. They did all my chores quickly and without complaining. That was the deal. It was like a mafia operation and I enjoyed being their Don for that one day.
When I started churning out the first chapos, my brothers made a beeline to the kitchen, each grabbing one, folding it twice into a quarter and heartily biting into the center. There was not a sound in that kitchen other than mm mm mmh.
They finished quickly and wiped the grease off their mouths using the back of their hands, then rubbing their hands together applying the grease, you would think it was some priced lotion. And with that, they disappeared through the back door to get back to their chores.
After finishing making the chapos, about 30 or more, my behind was almost stuck on the uncomfortable kitchen chair I was sitting on for hours. But knowing how happy chapos made everybody, it was all worth it. It was a labor of love, and I did not mind it one bit.
