My eyes swelled up and my fingers slipped slightly as I continued a rhythmic motion of making almost-perfect lacerations. A gush of hot air sizzled next to me as I increased my somewhat leisure pace. With a quick movement with the arc of both my palms I gathered and spilled the onions into the hissing oil. I took a long swallow of the air, already humming the victory of a scrumptious first taste. I moved my body from the aromatic heat and peered into coldness. Stilled a notch, I calculated and finally picked the plump greens and some meaty legs. I danced around dicing and chopping and mixing and mixing. A bit of salt here and a bit of sweet there and a whole lot of spice everywhere. The redolence of ginger and garlic burning and tickling the neb. The tangy balancing and settling. Small fragments of coriander and mint sprinkled on top. Lowering the warmth, I eye and swallow tiny gulps and cock my head to the side. I add a pinch of the missing piece in my head. I sauté a bit more and I let it simmer a bit more.
I look outside and see black and the moon hiding above concrete. Taking out the fragrant wax, I light the wick and place it on top of flowery prints. The glassware is washed and cleaned and brims with water holding the freshly cut stems of beauties. The low purr of high scales and pitched music engulfs around. I take out the good china and place my creation inexpertly on the centre. While not a professional, I sigh at my heavenly appetite and pause on the plating meant for a connoisseur. To a layman’s eye, it seemed just a step behind flawless. It shall do, I say and curve my lips.
I put on white frills with small pink daisies on it. My hair tied in twists and turns and eyes adorned in dark. My peached lips call out in lavish to the one who waits with hunger in his eyes and belly. As we sit with dancing figures on the wall spinning humungous stories of the present which doesn’t enlighten regarding the contentment on the face when the ladle reaches the mouth. With lashes shut, out comes a sound not melodious but gratifying. The sweat collected and drained, the pains of the joints and the tedious hands inwardly scream with success. Time flies in seconds or maybe hours as concluding figures of edibles are etched on the plates. With a satisfying glint, the stomach bulges ever so vaguely.
As I drench my hands with foam and liquid and put my participants of labour away into neat racks, I hum to myself of the sweetest memory created. I stack my pretty frills and wash away the day and hear my head sing with sleep. I make way to fluff and white and let my body fall into the sponges of comport. My eyes closed up and fingers resting on my chest as my breath continues a rhythmic motion of making perfect reveries.
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