Okra
I WISH I KISSED YOU a thousand times more. A wave of passion surges and swells as I take another spoonful of lusciously soft okra into my mouth. I had shunned okra for so long and you brought it back to me. But tonight, I made the stew and the amount of desire, longing and loss that has gone into it makes it almost too much to bear. I eat it as if I am eating you.
I met you on the last night of my holiday. I had noticed you before, admired the rich deep colour of your skin, the tautness of your torso and something more. But our paths didn’t cross and I was thankful for that, I get by very well on admiring from afar.
Besides, you were young, free and single. I am the opposite of all three. I was on a family holiday with my husband and grown-up kids. Our 25-year marriage still ticks by without either of us taking much notice. I know, I have been told so many times: I am emotionally barren. I was not always like that. Having my children awakened something in me but sexually I have always been remote. Being remote does not mean I don’t want passion, I do, but find it difficult to experience. It awakens too many other emotions in me that I have buried. But meeting you was the first unearthing.
On our last night, we sat down at a big table for dinner with some people we had met over the week. You wandered over and joined us. I shifted in my seat and had stern words with myself to calm down. I looked at your plate to see what you had chosen to eat and you caught me looking. You said something to me. I was taken aback. Strangers don’t talk to me. I am the invisible one. I usually struggle to hear in busy rooms full of chatter. You were across the table and were telling me how much you loved okra. I watched your lips move, I heard you clearly. I love it too, I said and told you how my mother used to cook it.
I fell silent immediately after that. I couldn’t believe I used the words ‘love’ and ‘mother’ in the same sentence. My heart sent a painful stab towards my lungs, a warning. I don’t talk about food to anyone. It’s too intimate. I lost my sense of taste, and so much else, a long time ago, when I was a little girl. Since then, I avoid thinking, talking or making food. I can’t enjoy it.
I look down into my lap and remind myself who I am. But your eyes stayed on me. You waited. I looked up and they were still there. For the first time in years, I felt seen.
Later, we somehow found ourselves alone face to face at the beach. With every passing minute, I was drifting away from my anchor. I tried to look beyond you, to gaze at the starry sky above your head and the sea that was lit up by one bright streak of moonlight. But your eyes kept me locked in. Eyes which took me to another land. There, I saw my past, felt the warmth of happy memories I thought had been buried forever. I had an overwhelming desire to kiss you. To see if in your kiss, I would taste the saltiness of the sea I once knew so well.
Kissing you became all I could think about. Come back, you said to me.
I met you on the last night of my holiday. I had noticed you before, admired the rich deep colour of your skin, the tautness of your torso and something more. But our paths didn’t cross and I was thankful for that, I get by very well on admiring from afar.
Besides, you were young, free and single. I am the opposite of all three. I was on a family holiday with my husband and grown-up kids. Our 25-year marriage still ticks by without either of us taking much notice. I know, I have been told so many times: I am emotionally barren. I was not always like that. Having my children awakened something in me but sexually I have always been remote. Being remote does not mean I don’t want passion, I do, but find it difficult to experience. It awakens too many other emotions in me that I have buried. But meeting you was the first unearthing.
On our last night, we sat down at a big table for dinner with some people we had met over the week. You wandered over and joined us. I shifted in my seat and had stern words with myself to calm down. I looked at your plate to see what you had chosen to eat and you caught me looking. You said something to me. I was taken aback. Strangers don’t talk to me. I am the invisible one. I usually struggle to hear in busy rooms full of chatter. You were across the table and were telling me how much you loved okra. I watched your lips move, I heard you clearly. I love it too, I said and told you how my mother used to cook it.
I fell silent immediately after that. I couldn’t believe I used the words ‘love’ and ‘mother’ in the same sentence. My heart sent a painful stab towards my lungs, a warning. I don’t talk about food to anyone. It’s too intimate. I lost my sense of taste, and so much else, a long time ago, when I was a little girl. Since then, I avoid thinking, talking or making food. I can’t enjoy it.
I look down into my lap and remind myself who I am. But your eyes stayed on me. You waited. I looked up and they were still there. For the first time in years, I felt seen.
Later, we somehow found ourselves alone face to face at the beach. With every passing minute, I was drifting away from my anchor. I tried to look beyond you, to gaze at the starry sky above your head and the sea that was lit up by one bright streak of moonlight. But your eyes kept me locked in. Eyes which took me to another land. There, I saw my past, felt the warmth of happy memories I thought had been buried forever. I had an overwhelming desire to kiss you. To see if in your kiss, I would taste the saltiness of the sea I once knew so well.
Kissing you became all I could think about. Come back, you said to me.
Watermelon
BACK HOME, I FEEL so unsettled by this encounter. You wanted me. It was like water to a parched plant, one you thought was long dead but then resolutely shows signs of life at the first hint of hydration. But I also felt embarrassed. What if it was all in my head. Then, you found me via social media. I loved your messages, in broken English but full of heart. Every beep of my phone triggered a jolt of excitement. They kept coming, I was hooked.
We is unforgettable. I never give up. I wanna touch you. I feel your breaths on my hears. I miss you sooo much. Darling. When you come back. You my fairy girl. Beautiful in every photo. We need story. Imagen if we did something. It’s amazing. Good morning lovely. I'm so happy impatient to see you. When you come back? I love you.
I stop replying at the last message. And you understood my silence.
But odd things start to happen, I crave food I haven’t eaten in years. I go up to the attic to retrieve my mum’s old cookbook but as soon as I open it, see her notes in the margin, I slam it shut. I am not ready yet but I am hungry. I go shopping, not to my usual supermarket but to the food market with all the exotic sights and smells. People bustle along in the space between the stalls dragging their granny carts behind them, haggling over the prices.
I see myself at 6 years old, sent off by my mother to buy breakfast from the bakery down the road. I crumple the notes into the pockets of my dress and run as fast as my little legs can cope with. At the bakery, they ask me if I want the usual, I nod. One of the bakers with the huge arms picks me up and puts me on the tall stool by the counter so that I can see the flatbreads making their journey through the flames into the back of the oven and gently carried back with the wooden paddle, seconds later, bubbling away and golden brown. But then, the smell of burning overwhelms me, I feel that intense roaring heat all around, I am frightened.
I snap awake from my daydream and spot a pile of oblong stripy watermelons stacked at the front of a fruit stall. I rush towards them, quickly buy one and carry it like a baby in my arms to my car. As I start the car, I hear that familiar beep from my phone. You chose that moment to get in touch, to ask if I am ok, that you still think of me, want me. I sit back, breathe and smile. I have you to look forward to. I make up my mind to stop dreaming and start living.
I wander towards my kitchen, the least used room in my house. With the new Japanese knife, a wedding present that remained in its sealed box, I glide easily through the thick skin of the oversized watermelon. It’s as if I had been doing this for years. I am enjoying the physicality of this. The ruby red flesh is on show with juice oozing out, drenching the chopping board. I haven’t eaten watermelon in several years. I sit down to eat, slowly, mindfully. I smell how vibrant it is. I can almost taste its sweetness or maybe it’s a remembered taste, I am not sure. I allow myself to drift to you. My hand slips under my pants.
We is unforgettable. I never give up. I wanna touch you. I feel your breaths on my hears. I miss you sooo much. Darling. When you come back. You my fairy girl. Beautiful in every photo. We need story. Imagen if we did something. It’s amazing. Good morning lovely. I'm so happy impatient to see you. When you come back? I love you.
I stop replying at the last message. And you understood my silence.
But odd things start to happen, I crave food I haven’t eaten in years. I go up to the attic to retrieve my mum’s old cookbook but as soon as I open it, see her notes in the margin, I slam it shut. I am not ready yet but I am hungry. I go shopping, not to my usual supermarket but to the food market with all the exotic sights and smells. People bustle along in the space between the stalls dragging their granny carts behind them, haggling over the prices.
I see myself at 6 years old, sent off by my mother to buy breakfast from the bakery down the road. I crumple the notes into the pockets of my dress and run as fast as my little legs can cope with. At the bakery, they ask me if I want the usual, I nod. One of the bakers with the huge arms picks me up and puts me on the tall stool by the counter so that I can see the flatbreads making their journey through the flames into the back of the oven and gently carried back with the wooden paddle, seconds later, bubbling away and golden brown. But then, the smell of burning overwhelms me, I feel that intense roaring heat all around, I am frightened.
I snap awake from my daydream and spot a pile of oblong stripy watermelons stacked at the front of a fruit stall. I rush towards them, quickly buy one and carry it like a baby in my arms to my car. As I start the car, I hear that familiar beep from my phone. You chose that moment to get in touch, to ask if I am ok, that you still think of me, want me. I sit back, breathe and smile. I have you to look forward to. I make up my mind to stop dreaming and start living.
I wander towards my kitchen, the least used room in my house. With the new Japanese knife, a wedding present that remained in its sealed box, I glide easily through the thick skin of the oversized watermelon. It’s as if I had been doing this for years. I am enjoying the physicality of this. The ruby red flesh is on show with juice oozing out, drenching the chopping board. I haven’t eaten watermelon in several years. I sit down to eat, slowly, mindfully. I smell how vibrant it is. I can almost taste its sweetness or maybe it’s a remembered taste, I am not sure. I allow myself to drift to you. My hand slips under my pants.
Baklava
SIX MONTHS LATER, I board a plane and go back to see you. I want to heal and I think you can help. I want you more than I have ever wanted anyone or anything.
As soon as I bump into you, I am home. I am in your arms and I am kissing you. Melting into you. It feels good, as good as I imagined it, which surprises me. Your hand reaches under my skirt. It’s as if I have been hurled into heaven. All I want is more. But, suddenly, I go cold. Something in me seizes up. I have not allowed myself to feel for so long and now, on feeling so much I run out of breath. Without explanation, I flee to the safety of my room.
When I wake up the next day, I am aching to see you. Down at the beach, you are teaching a little girl how to get onto a paddle board. I stop in my tracks. There is a tenderness there that I wish I hadn’t seen. When she is safely off into the water, you turn to me. You say my name. I am crazy with desire again.
The way you say my name. I haven’t heard it pronounced like that since I was a child. I realise that the door to my past that had creaked ajar when I met you, was now flung wide open. The smell of the sea and wild jasmine from back then fills my nostrils. Take me there. I lean in and give you a scrap of paper with my room number.
Late at night, you knock on my door. You are holding a box, you tell me it’s baklava from your hometown, you wanted me to try it. How could you have known.
We fall on each other with fury. Our bodies are impatient, desperate to come together. You are moving inside me and I am letting go, so much wanting stored up for so long. Going without is easy but as soon as you have a small taste of pleasure, you want more. I want more.
But first, you say, we eat. You want me to try the baklava. I don’t have the words. You take a piece from the box and feed me. It throws me back to the day when I shut down.
The day when my mother asked me to come along with her on a visit. With my small hand in hers, we make a stop at the sweet shop first to buy a box of baklava to give to her friend. The man serving her, in his pristine white coat and hat, immediately offers her and me a piece from a tray that has just arrived. He sees that I am loving it so he offers me another before I have finished the one in my mouth. Be careful Mohammed, I don’t want you to spoil her dinner, my mother says tut tutting and wagging her finger at him. She reaches into her red leather handbag, the one that my father bought her from England, she is looking for her purse. A flash of bright light fills up the room and our eardrums burst.
When I wake up, I am under something heavy. It’s Mohammed’s limp body. All I can smell is burnt flesh and I feel the heat of a fire close by. Sirens are arriving, I can’t move. All I can do is breathe in the dust and ashes.
As the paramedics take me on a stretcher to the back of the ambulance I see bodies strewn everywhere. I hear screams. One of those is mine as I trip on my mother’s handbag. It’s all that’s left of her.
I hold you close and cry all the tears that I haven’t been able to. You wipe my face and lean in to kiss me gently, only on the cheek. I look into your eyes and hungrily kiss you back. I want you to fuck all the hurt out of me. We are again devouring each other. I want to kiss you between your legs you say. I let you. The heat I feel now is comforting, it makes me feel safe, I go towards it.
As soon as I bump into you, I am home. I am in your arms and I am kissing you. Melting into you. It feels good, as good as I imagined it, which surprises me. Your hand reaches under my skirt. It’s as if I have been hurled into heaven. All I want is more. But, suddenly, I go cold. Something in me seizes up. I have not allowed myself to feel for so long and now, on feeling so much I run out of breath. Without explanation, I flee to the safety of my room.
When I wake up the next day, I am aching to see you. Down at the beach, you are teaching a little girl how to get onto a paddle board. I stop in my tracks. There is a tenderness there that I wish I hadn’t seen. When she is safely off into the water, you turn to me. You say my name. I am crazy with desire again.
The way you say my name. I haven’t heard it pronounced like that since I was a child. I realise that the door to my past that had creaked ajar when I met you, was now flung wide open. The smell of the sea and wild jasmine from back then fills my nostrils. Take me there. I lean in and give you a scrap of paper with my room number.
Late at night, you knock on my door. You are holding a box, you tell me it’s baklava from your hometown, you wanted me to try it. How could you have known.
We fall on each other with fury. Our bodies are impatient, desperate to come together. You are moving inside me and I am letting go, so much wanting stored up for so long. Going without is easy but as soon as you have a small taste of pleasure, you want more. I want more.
But first, you say, we eat. You want me to try the baklava. I don’t have the words. You take a piece from the box and feed me. It throws me back to the day when I shut down.
The day when my mother asked me to come along with her on a visit. With my small hand in hers, we make a stop at the sweet shop first to buy a box of baklava to give to her friend. The man serving her, in his pristine white coat and hat, immediately offers her and me a piece from a tray that has just arrived. He sees that I am loving it so he offers me another before I have finished the one in my mouth. Be careful Mohammed, I don’t want you to spoil her dinner, my mother says tut tutting and wagging her finger at him. She reaches into her red leather handbag, the one that my father bought her from England, she is looking for her purse. A flash of bright light fills up the room and our eardrums burst.
When I wake up, I am under something heavy. It’s Mohammed’s limp body. All I can smell is burnt flesh and I feel the heat of a fire close by. Sirens are arriving, I can’t move. All I can do is breathe in the dust and ashes.
As the paramedics take me on a stretcher to the back of the ambulance I see bodies strewn everywhere. I hear screams. One of those is mine as I trip on my mother’s handbag. It’s all that’s left of her.
I hold you close and cry all the tears that I haven’t been able to. You wipe my face and lean in to kiss me gently, only on the cheek. I look into your eyes and hungrily kiss you back. I want you to fuck all the hurt out of me. We are again devouring each other. I want to kiss you between your legs you say. I let you. The heat I feel now is comforting, it makes me feel safe, I go towards it.
Manakeesh
AFTER OUR TIME IS UP, I go back to my old life. When we said goodbye, we knew it was forever. I have commitments, I am tied up. But you freed me. After you, I feel free to live my life, released.
The day after I arrive home, I go to my mother’s cookbook. I turn to the recipe for manakeesh, the flatbreads I was always sent to the baker to buy for my family. I make them for my own stunned family. They love them. I take a bite and revel in the fireworks of flavour that thrill my tastebuds.
The day after I arrive home, I go to my mother’s cookbook. I turn to the recipe for manakeesh, the flatbreads I was always sent to the baker to buy for my family. I make them for my own stunned family. They love them. I take a bite and revel in the fireworks of flavour that thrill my tastebuds.
Angela Zaher is a freelance writer based in London. She writes about food, travel, culture and lifestyle. Her articles have been published in magazines such as Delicious, Platinum and The Brussels Times. She writes regular restaurant reviews for Time & Leisure magazine and is on the Committee of the Guild of Food Writers. Her story, Love, Loss & Recipes was published in the first online issue of the other side of hope and was nominated for a Best of the Net Award.
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