I can’t remember the last time I saw the sun. Arit said it pierced through the cement of cloud for all of fifteen minutes yesterday. Having overslept, I missed it.
In a slightly desperate effort to keep complete despair at bay, I invited Arit and James over for dinner last night. I made roast salmon with lemon-cardamom rice, which was, for me, a major accomplishment, as I am not renowned for my cooking. If the moans of delight that greeted the meal were any indication, I didn’t do too badly.
Today, Arit returned the favour by inviting me over for chocolate cake, the precise name of which escapes me but is, I think, German. The cake was expertly baked by John, who has taken up baking as a hobby and thus secured the title best boyfriend in the known universe. So good was this cake that I asked, piggishly, for a second slice, and could easily have eaten a third.
Biking home on the rain-slicked streets, I briefly pondered the relationship between food and love. It’s such a simple enjoyment, to feed someone or be fed by them, and yet it’s one of the most intimate things you can do with another person. In this sense, it is love at its best: kindly, open-hearted, and thoroughly ordinary.
Tonight, with two pieces of German chocolate cake nestled in my belly, I am promising myself that I will cook more often. There is simply no other way to survive this season.