10/19/2018
10/19/2018
I chop the onions and garlic and mushrooms
And the chicken I roasted from the night before, I chop that up too, making sure to save the congealed fat to use as an oil
The pan I bought at the alameda flea market all those years ago heats up slowly and i add in my ingredients
Salt, smoked paprika, cinnamon, chili flakes
watching the onions change color, I consider each one as I shake them into the pan,
The smell wafts into the kitchen and I take a deep breath,
How long will you stick around this heavy heart?
I remember asking you if you had ever had my cooking
I am a good cook
I better be
In the same line as teta
I better be
I wanted you to taste what she taught me
How she made me in her image
Showing me how to endure abandonment by making labneh
How to work through the deep inadequacies of edging out a space that was never meant for me by stewing eggplant for hours
How to be bold and brave, fierce and wild by cackling loudly as we add too much tomato paste than the recipe calls for because it is better this way and letting a partial can sit and go bad is an actual travesty in a home that knows famine.
You remind me of that famine now
There is always injustice in famine, it is never wholly by accident as much as it is by design.