At our new place, we spend most of our time in the kitchen. The rest of the rooms, we still have to fix up and furnish. But the kitchen was just right from the minute we unpacked our boxes. There’s the perfect seat right there in the window, and the perfect place to hang an apron, and the perfect place to keep a small earthenware dish of Maldon. We find ourselves caught up in interminable cooking projects, for the sheer joy of handling the race-car stove and filling the room with scent: cumin, garlic, nutmeg.
‘The other night we had people over for a coq au vin that had sat simmering for a good 6 hours and hinted beautifully of lemon. Last night I filled the freezer with misshapen dumplings while The Better Man fried up some chorizo for our dinner. The fat we could soak up with bread – the Better Man bakes on Sundays – and for lunch today I could bring sandwiches: a fine layer of strong mustard, then slivers of the roast beef from this week-end, crusted in thyme and pepper.
The radio on in the background (my little pink TIVOLI goes perfect on the shelf), the windows misting up against the freezing winter’s night outside, we sit planning our New Years Feast. I’ll do French starters, (oysters, smoked ducks breast) salads and cheeses, and desserts – the Better Man will cook a zillion Lebanese dishes: honeyed chicken, lamb and feta, baba ganouch.
Then my phone bleeps: incoming text. “U fucking bitch cant keep me from my fucking kids”
The things is: while the Better Man and I cocoon our nights away, there’s still a world full of eedjits out there. There’s a couple (complete strangers to me) who have been divorcing for about a year. The HE of this couple seems a few marbles short of a dice and has got her number confused with mine. Even though I have apprised him of this on several occasions, I still get his frantic/drunk/bitter/cajoling messages on a regular basis. Sometimes he grovels, sometime he growls. At no time does he seem to notice that the only feedback is “Return to sender”.
This man and his phone serve as a sort of Greek Chorus in my life. He’s always there in the wings, reminding me of the brevity of love and the frailty of human ties. I mean, one day you knock up a stranger by the pool-table, the next you can’t remember her number but are still stuck paying child support. God works in mysterious ways. For sure, the Better Man and I are braising lambracks in perfect harmony today – but who knows how long that will last. Tomorrow, the racks may burn. Last night, his little reminder served me well: there are ceratin things a lady should do that she shoudn’t do in the kitchen.
I immediately went and took a good long shower. Changed into a robe. Crept into bed. And spent a blissful night watching Legally Blonde and eating left over Christmas chocolates. The Better Man booted up his laptop and spent hours roaming the Internet. We didn’t say a word. And woke up this morning, refreshed and more in love than ever.
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