She feeds me with so much food for thought. Watching her in the kitchen is much like watching a genius painter plan colour palettes for a next masterpiece. Chopping and slicing, stirring and pinching, she manages to somehow make my mouth water at the thought of having her tastes in my filled cheeks. I watch from the couch as she fiddles around and sculpts her creation of the day. Walnuts, mushrooms (because she knows they are my favourite) kale, nutmeg, tomatoes, spinach, olive oil, pumpkin seeds, garlic and glutton-free pasta she reveals in excited banter to me, are just a few of the features that excite the plate that is soon to be marked with the devouring of my spoon. I never thought a white woman would be able to make soul food, but that is what she whips up, it's true! Even after a long day of work she will come through the door, take off her backpack and shoes, not relax for a moment and cook with passion and devotion healthy jewels. I try and tell her how much I enjoy her cooking, however I am not sure how much she really gets how much I really do. Her cooking is my favourite. The palette of flavours are as sophisticated as her in a Banana Republic high-waisted black skirt with white pearl earrings that were once worn by her lovely grandmother. The essence of taste that seeps into your cheeks are as delightful as her laughter when I tickle her at night.
I think her food bares the beauty of her soul in solid form. I smile all way to work when I carry her heartfelt lunch in my bag. Embarrassingly, I get giddy at my desk when I think of what maybe inside. Her recipes have me greedily satisfied. She is more sweet a pepper than I could ever ask for. Only her menu make my tastes bud.
I open the fridge door when she is not there and everything seems stale before being touched by her magical hands. She maybe vegan, yes that means no animal products at all, but the richness of her cooking does not suffer at all.
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