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every other man

The light outside the main entrance to our building has gone out again. The heavy metal door swings wide as I pull a hat down over my ears. In the darkness there are maybe twenty teenagers standing still. My boot scrapes across the ground, slowing down. Their hands in pockets, shoulders hunched, I look for a space to pass between them. A voice appears, saying hello in English, with an obvious accent. I am all instinct, sayingpivyet as I pass, not looking back, wondering who said this. There was a boy that was an extra in Blackbetty that lives in our building, but he is too young, too short for it to have been him.

I look back, navigating the puddles in the street. It does not make any sense.

N is with V, making their way home. I meet them, pulling V into my arms as she chatters about her day, about dry leaves and princesses, about her grandmother's apartment and what she ate there. We are going back home, and I try to explain the odd collection that stands outside. As we pass th…

everything in its right place

The fire is crackling, spitting. I stand, glazed by hours of hard sun and smoke. N is next to me, prepping the next wave of shrimp. We perform a wordless ballet, with meat and salt, sauce and oil. The knife is always returned to the right of the cutting board. The tongs, in the center of the table. Everything is in its right place.

I stare into the fire, after a careful flip of polenta. A year ago, this was the week when E came back from her mother's house with a new fear in her eyes. Her mother had sold all of E's clothing and toys. She had nothing there but a bare shelf. There were threats that E would be taken to Finland, and never see me again. Furniture was sold, and the car. The roots were being cut, and E returned with tears, her whole body shaking. She sat next to me, resting one hand on my arm at all times as I worked. In the end, the threats slowly evaporated. Why, I do not know. Maybe the idea was just to scare us, to remind us how flimsy our lives are. Maybe it will still happen. Anything is possible. E still has nothing there.

The flames lick the tails, and I flip them. There are hot spots on this mangal, and I am learning them. To cook over burning coals and open flame takes a certain intuition. There are early mistakes, scorched reminders. But if you listen to them, the flavors can be coaxed - smoke and char, sweetness and tenderness.

I watch E playing, her long hair flouncing as she laughs.

The day will unfold with waves of spice and meat, of lemongrass and ginger, lime, chili and garlic. I will collapse into a chair, drink cold wine and stare up at the sky. People will shout, telling me the chicken is burning. I will jump up, make an adjustment. The insects come out, as N slaps at her arms in anticipation. I tell her she is the sweetest, and this is why they bite her the most.

I am spent. The meat devoured, bellies are swollen, shining in the darkness as the coals turn white.





Comments

liv said…
What a difference a year makes!

She is changing so much, growing so fast. I hope she has forgotten those old days. I hope she will only remember the smells of the food, the laughter of the friends and her Pop. The one who cooks the good, good food.

It was a sweet post and the pictures were gorgeous. Thank you for posting, Marco. Thank you for sharing this life of you three. Monday is always the best day of the week.
mosaikmum said…
Yes, a lovely post! Thanks for writing and the food looks and sounds great.
Annie said…
Your daughter will be one extraordinary person....not that she isn't already.

I wish I could drop in for your left-overs....

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