Letters to Luena (1)

Your mother is having one of her days. What do I mean by “her days”? I can see how that is a little too open to interpretation. Let me explain.

A few days ago I was in the shower, the door seperating the bathroom from the bedroom was open. The steam carried the scent of the soap to your mother on the bed, who, unprovoked, told me to never again use this soap when she was around. You might be tempted to think that this was new type of soap, never before used in this house. You would be wrong. For several weeks now within this pregnancy I have showered with this soap. What has changed you ask? Apart from the hormones you have been pumping into my lover, nothing at all. I have a medical degree but the movements of the pregnancy gods are a wonder and a mystery to me.

That does little to explain what happened today, but it does give you an idea of the changing tides of olfactory appreciation that your mother has rode on this journey to having you. Today, again, I was preparing to leave the house. The offending soap had been avoided and I decided to spritz myself with a bit of cologne so as to smell well among the people. Mind you, other colognes have already been banned as they offend your mothers nostrils deeply. Her own fragrances have similarly fallen victim to the olfactory tides of pregnancy. However, this perfume had been graciously deemed inoffensive at an earlier tribunal. I therefore confidently applied it to my neck and wrists. The scent soon wafted over to your mother (again, on the bed) and was met with a crinkling of the nose in deep annoyance. The conclusion of the matter is that there are no safe perfumes.

Like the garlic before it all, perfumes must wait until you are with us out here. While you are still gladly kicking ribs and punching bladders from your little Fortress of Solitude, we shall continue to suffer your whims on the outside. We cannot wait to meet you, for all the reasons you think, and all the ones you can hardly guess.

T.T.

Palate memories

Tears welled up in my eyes when my wife handed me my supper plate and there was a serving of ting. “Ting ya mabele” or just “ting” is a fermented sorghum porridge. Being fermented it has a very distinct smell that may be off-putting to some but it has a unique taste that pairs really well with other savory dishes popular in the areas of South Africa where it is made. My first Christmas with my in-laws, my mother in love handed me a plate that had ting, chakalaka, a beef stew and some other things I can’t remember off the top of my head. I’d never had it before so I was a bit skeptical about tasting it, given the smell that preceded it. The way she made it was a bit different and the texture she got it to was her signature. I haven’t had anything quite like it ever since. My wife has been reclaiming familial recipes, seeking the nostalgia of better days and trying to hold on to memories that we won’t be able to recreate with her mother who sadly passed away a few months ago. The realization of the loss slapped me across the face in the moment my spoon deposited its contents on my tongue. But, in the same moment the angst for my mother in laws cooking gently cupped my cheeks and offered a subtle consolation. I will always feel like I didn’t have enough time with her. Knowing that, I can’t imagine the loss she represents to my partner and her family. However, I am grateful that she left these things with us. To light a candle of remembrance, to share and to pass on in a medium as powerful as food. If you see me cry over a plate, let me be.