Cooking is an act of love.
You have to love your ingredients, caress them, stir them with care, stare at them affectionately as they manifest into the taste and vision of your dreams.
Cooking, like love, is also an act of waiting.
We wait, patiently, for the water to boil,
For the flowers to bloom and spring to arrive.
We wait for the seeds to pop in the oil, for the onions to fry, for the spices to colour and flavour the food,
For the Sun to shine and transform a dully coloured panorama,
For the cooker to whistle, signalling the rice is cooked and mildly but suitably seasoned,
For him to not notice I'm looking,
For him to notice I'm looking,
For my beau to walk through the door as the aroma of food wafts to him, invitingly fresh.
For love to find its home, in the part of my heart I poured into preparing a dish and the other part that waited patiently for it to prepare and then, arrive.
In a small but surprisingly spacious hut in the village of Khuri,
Soraya sat beside her pots, empty ones, waiting to fill up.
"With what?", I asked.
"Well, love of course! And food worth sharing so they're empty soon after they're full and the memory of the meal lives on for many", her eyes glistened like only a lover's could.
If only every wait ended like that...
That look in her eyes made you believe it would.
