church girl: dinner

“What’s the sweet aroma coming from the kitchen? Did you burn some incense?” He asked playfully. She already loved his sense of humour. He had this raw humour. One that comes from a deeper place in his heart. It was natural. Unadulterated. She shouted from the kitchen, “how about you come and join me as I steam the cabbages?” She had a small voice, the voice of a baby who refuses to grow up. Shouting took effort. She never raises her voice.

Walking in, some euphoria kicked in. The kitchen was huge and inviting with a small center place with two high stools. He wondered why she needed two stools. Did she entertain people in here? Or was there a man of the house who probably worked out of town? Little did he know that other than her brother, he was the only other man to be invited into her kitchen.

She considers her kitchen a sanctuary. It is a place where she is at peace with herself. A place she can express herself without any limitation. When she decided to take the house, it was the kitchen that most attracted her. Here, she has cooked naked, tried exotic recipes, done her devotions when sited on the high stool as she baked her favorite banana bread. She has done everything here. Other than the bed, she spends most of her time here. Cooking connects her with her inner self.

When her mother died. She turned to food therapy. She would cook or bake. Sit at one corner of the kitchen, next to the dustbin, eat and cry. Some days she would fall asleep then wake up in the middle of the night, freezing cold, shivering and feeling miserable. She would get into bed; cry some more then sleep. The following day she’d wake up and go to work. Then she would come home in the evening and do it all over again.

Within a month, she had added ten kilos and had become sickly. If there’s one thing she had always loved about herself, was how well defined her body was. Now she hated it!

During this season, she hated gifts. What she had longed for was for someone to hold her. Tell her it is ok. That she will be ok. That her mother raised her to be a strong girl. That this too shall pass. Instead, people were sending her gifts that were meaningless gifts. Like this cookbook her friend sent her. Before, this would have meant the world to her. But now she didn’t care! Because of excess eating, she had become- in her words- a ball of fat. It felt like mockery. She did not open it for a month.

One day when she was cleaning, the book fell from the small table. A note slipped from the book. It read, ‘I do not know what is happening to you, and as a friend, I am concerned. But since you won’t let me in, you can let Jesus. This book has devotions and recipes. I think you will love it. Love. M.” When she opened it, the first page had a green smoothie recipe and the bible verse, “I will never leave you, nor forsake you.” She made the smoothie, and for the first time in a long while, she felt alive.

The kitchen was fully fitted with a modern six burner gas cooker. Since she was a smoothies’ addict, an overflowing fruit basket sat invitingly at the corner of the counter top. Above the gas cooker, on the shelve, she had different condiments neatly arranged. She had a collection from all over the world. When her friends travelled, they always brought her spices. Her best collection of all however was her own picking from when she visited the spice farm while in Zanzibar. She carried all the varieties they had to offer. This one stayed under lock and key. Her version of expensive whiskey.

When she opened the oven and pulled the tray, some golden diced boneless chicken and potato wedges lay invitingly on the tray. This was her favourite dish, she had always loved chicken since childhood. He mother was a chicken farmer and discouraged them from having red meat. Growing up, they had a Friday ritual where they had chicken for dinner. Chicken and chapatti. So when she invited him for a Friday date, she knew a chicken dish would bring out her authentic self. The chicken reminded her of her family, and with that cloud of family hanging above her, like a guardian angel, it would give her a sign if she was making a mistake. She knew on Friday nights she connects deeply with people.

When she was about to steam the cabbages, he offered to do it. He loves cabbages. Weekdays he does vegetarian meals. Cabbages are his favorite vegetables. She stepped away, and he stepped up. In a few minutes, he was done. He always cooked for girls. Mostly as bait. Feed her. Humour her. Fondle with her. And you are one-foot in. But this day he did it for other reasons. He cannot tell why, but he felt driven to do it.

She couldn’t believe how fast he did it. He had mentioned that he loved cooking and but not a word that he was a qualified chef. He considered his cooking an act of worship. Cooking connected him with his inner person. He can never cook when he is in a bad mood. Bad mood translated to bad meals. He treats the food with dignity, because, to him, it has life. When cooking for his boys, he uses terms like, don’t bruise the lettuce. Whether eating alone of cooking for several people, he sets the table carefully thinking of who might sit next to him in case he got an impromptu visitor. And today he offered to do one of the things that is very personal to him. A break from the norm.

After they were done cooking, the decided they’ll have the meal in the kitchen. 

Coincidentally, this is a place they both felt at peace the most. In a place they consider a sanctuary in their respective houses, they sat to have the meal. Then she asked him to say grace for food. He was shocked. He never prayed for food. Every morning, he wakes up, bends one knee and says a prayer then goes  to the loo.  And that was enough for the day. But today he said a prayer.

She never fails to pray for food. She knows food is a gift. She never wastes food. Her fridge always has leftovers which she makes sure she eats. Growing up with seven kids, food was a rare commodity in their house. Some days they would have nothing to eat. She had vowed that if God blesses her with enough food, she would never waste it. To date, she has kept her word. Once in a year, she organizes cook out to feed the streets kids because she knows what it means to go without a meal.

After serving the meal, there was only a little remaining. She has become a master of portions. She knows what portion will be enough for two hungry people. She knew he was not going to eat a lot. First date impressions. But he served a huge portion. There was no need for pretense. He loved food.

Just like cooking, eating for him was an art. He was a meticulous eater. One fork after the other in a rhythmic way. His cutlery barely touched the plate. His napkins, though used, are always neatly folded next to his plate. He chews slowly and thoughtfully. It is like he is analyzing every flavor. Like each flavor has a nerve that it must hit.

But to her, eating is a ritual. It is the cooking that she considers sacred. After cooking, it doesn’t matter how she eats. But she loves eating with her hands. She finds using cutlery too pretentious. She shrugged, to each their own and delved in. But it surprised her how he was a graceful eater. She thought he was a rough guy.

When they were done eating, she decided to do the dishes. She always leaves the kitchen clean. Leaving the kitchen dirty is like dating someone with baggage  from a past relationship. You do not know where to begin. It’s so confusing to be effective. In a few minutes, she was done. He didn’t help, he hates doing dishes. Growing up, if the mother wanted to punish him, she told him to do dishes. He loved to wash the house though. So he offered to mop the floor. It confused her. This guy was different in a weird way. Did he have a double personality? On the surface, he looked like he didn’t care about anything, but his bike, but here he was being all helpful. She wouldn’t be fazed though. Her guard was still high.

She made some tea. She loves masala tea. She says it has a calming effect. He is not a fan of tea. In fact, his house has two cups only. One for him and the other for his mother. He buys tea leaves when his mother visits. Normally, he takes a glass of juice every morning and a toasted slice of bread. So when she made tea, it reminded him of his mother. Snap! his mother always has a way of coming into his life. Now it was the elephant in the room. That teapot felt like his mother’s ghost telling him, ‘Son, I am watching you.’ He felt watched, mothered even. Now he couldn’t do anything with the mother in the room.

When they sat down to have tea, they switched off the main light and left this small chandelier light, hanging over the counter, on. It was romantic in a subtle way. They talked about everything, work, family, a bit of politics, their fears, their dreams, their hopes. Everything. It was the first time she had such a heart to heart conversation with a man. Mostly, it is with her girls. It was now 11 pm. And it was getting cold. They decided to move to the couch. She went into the bedroom to get a duvet….