A Date Night

Alone in a house. A fall evening and I've been stood up.

Yes, stood up.

The Captain, the one who never bought curtains for his apartment. The one who smelled of Hugo Boss left me hanging. Bitter? No. Well...okay a little. But also relieved, a little.

Alone in the house an I don't mind at all.

Date night for one ;-)

I peel off the dress I was wearing. I went through the trouble to put on make up too. I'll keep that. I did a good job on it, would be a shame to wash it away. Pulled on my grey yoga pants and a tee. No, a tank top. Hell I'm home, I can wear my prom dress if I wanted to!!

A flashback to my prom. I went with the guy who was voted "Most Likely to Succeed" after high school. I bet HE wouldn't have stood me up! Don't be bitter. Move on.

A violent crack of thunder and the pitter-patter of rain begins. A flash of lightening illuminates the house. I admit, my heart did leap. Thunder and lighting is exciting to me. Something about the world being taken over by itself for a moment and not by anyone else is awe-inspiring. Thunder and lighting can be creepy romantic. Scary and thrilling. 

I hear another sound. A gurgle. My tummy is seeking attention. It too has a mind of its own.

I tip-toe down the stairs and swing around the banister into the kitchen. A flash of lightening flickers through the kitchen window, oooh how lovely and mysterious nature is! 

I turned on the light in the hood of the stove. No need to turn on all the lights and kill the mood. 

I had planned a beautiful menu for that evening. An evening for two. Minus one. So a beautiful menu for one. I had already done my mise en place. Shallots diced, garlic minced, a bottle of Reisling chilling in the fridge. Yes, the wine.  

I mosey over to the china hutch and pull out one of mom's nice wine glasses. You know, the ones for company but not just any company...good company? Ya. Screw it. I'm good company! Cheers to date night!

A glug or two into the glass and plug in my ear buds. iPod, work your magic! The Beatles playlist. A little Twist and Shout on the kitchen tiles should get this party for one rolling.

I turn on the burner and swirl olive oil into the pan and allow it to warm up. I pulled the chicken breast I had marinating from that morning. I laid it in the hot fat and allowed it to sizzle away.  The aroma of woodsy rosemary fills my nose and my mind eats up the air anticipating how wonderful dinner will be.

In another skillet I repeat the process but this time adding shallots. What is it about the pungent smell of onions that evokes hunger? Garlic and mushrooms follow and I push it around with a wooden spoon.  

Arborio rice. Pearls of white grain. I scatter a palm full into the warm pan and swish it around in the infused olive oil. I sip my wine. I look at the glass and and I glance down at the sizzling pan. I tip the wheat coloured Reisling into the pan and the vigorous bubble begins.  I stir again and allow the liquid to absorb.

Risotto gently comes to life on the stove as I enjoy my beverage. The chicken takes her time cooking and growing delicious and brown.

Mmm risotto. It's a therapeutic dish I find. Its a dish that inevitably allows you to think and reflect as you cook it.  Slowly I splash my warm chicken stock over the beads of rice, turning it clockwise, then counterclockwise as it releases itself developing a rice with a lovely creamy consistency.

My mind wonders. What was he doing that was so important that he'd turn down my risotto? I mean, come one...it's risotto! It must be a good reason, I mean he is a Captain. I thought of a loving excuse and carried on swishing and swirling.

I'm Looking Through You, is next on the play list as I pour another glass of wine and simultaneously yank the fridge door out and pull out a wedge of Parmesan cheese.  I gently unwrap it and begin to grate away snowy curls of salty robust cheese. I held the shredded shards in my hand and dust it into a bowl on stand by. The perfume of milky cheese stays on my skin. I don't mind. I'm my date tonight.

The thunder grumbles and the rain pours heavily.  I hear the clinks as the drops smack against the drain pipes. Ting! Ting! Like bells from a dark cloudy heaven. Fresh sweet water trickles down the window pane as the evening turns to night.

My kitty Oreo S's her body around my ankles speaking fluent cat love with her meows and purrs. I look down at her lovingly as she sits staring up at me. She always knew precisely when to be around to keep me company. Like that girlfriend who called you right when you had a nasty fight with your boyfriend to say, "Uh, screw it! Let's get our nails done!" just to keep you distracted from the drama of life. Sweet Oreo.

The plump chicken breast waits on a side plate as I spoon in a generous knob of butter into my elegant dish. 

I watch the butter sigh an awe of relief as it melts and tumbles over and through the nooks and caverns of silky rice.  I gently lift and fold, blending the shiny yellow with the pale white watching the satin risotto come together. And as a final flourish I dusted the grated Parmesan cheese. A sweet perfume steamed up to my face and I breathed in deeply.  Decadent, smooth, just al dente. 

A rainy night alone.

I plated my meal, restaurant style. Slices of succulent chicken fanned delicately over a small mountain of risotto. A garnish? Why not, I do deserve a pretty plate.

I lit a candle and placed it on the coffee table and turned the fire place on. 

I sat on the floor, gently humming "And I love her" and dined.

Claps of thunder.
Flashes of lightening.
Satin white risotto.

Unexpected date night. 

An evening of storm and rain, alone in this house. Stood up. Yoga pants and candle light. Curled eyelashes and red lipstick. Paul and John whispering in my ear. 

A dinner for one.

xo,

The Girl who Likes to Cook

If I could...I would

How I would...And I could...if you would...will you let me?

Let's see...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If I could pour all of you into a pristine glass bowl,
Whisking you off your feet, spoiling you
With sugary sweet and perfume of vanilla
Making you feel a happiness as light as air

I would.

If I could peel away your layers of hurt and pain

Shielding you from hellish oven of life, full of scrutiny and sorrow

Polishing and buffing away the parts of your 

Bruised soul that steal your handsome smile 

I would.

If I could light a flame of love underneath you

Driving you the fiery edge of lust undeniable

Igniting your passion, boiling to your hearts brim with desire

Filling you with inspiration delicious beyond compare

I would.

If I could hold you on an ivory white plate

Like the last slice of something sweet

Treasuring you...

Every crack

Every crumb

The smoothness of your hands on my skin

The cherry blush of your lips

The dusty brown coarseness of your hair 
Slipping through my finger tips

If I could savor every last piece of you...

I would.

xo,

The Girl who Likes to Cook

Imagine...if you will

Imagine, if you will, the following...

I dawned shorts that day. Which if you know me, I rarely ever do. I wore my old school tee that says "I Love My Fry Guys," which was a canary yellow with a faded picture of the MacDonald's fry guy characters plastered on the front.

My instinct is to turn on the oven first. Years of classical training tells me I would much rather have the oven wait on me than vice versa.

I yank the freezer door open and a gust of icy air hits my face. I look at the Tetris-like masterpiece that is my frozen foods section. Delicately organized so that if I pull out my tub of French vanilla ice cream I won't get be knocked out by an avalanche of frozen solid whole chickens or a sack of frozen carrots. 

On the door is a shelf where my packet of neatly wrapped phyllo pastry slept. I should have pulled it out sooner but this was an impromptu baking session.

I saunter over to the microwave which I've now knighted as "Chef Mike" (Mike, like short for Microwave...I think it's clever no?) He can zap the hell out of anything you put in him. He can cook or REcook if you don't give him clear instructions. In this case, he was set up to merely thaw my pastry just enough so I can work with it.

20 second intervals. Chef Mike sometimes gets carried away.

I return to the refrigerator, this time to the chill chest, and more specifically, the cheese drawer. Yes, I actually store my cheese in the cheese drawer. 

I then pull out my ricotta (250 g to be exact) and proceed to drain it over a fine sieve. Why? Ricotta has quite a bit of moisture, moisture I didn't need.

Chef Mike beeps at me.  I open him up to find my pastry thawed and ready.  I replace pastry with a small bowl containing butter.  I love the smell of melting butter and prepared myself to once again relish the lofty aroma of that milky, nutty, and dare I say fatty liquefied butter.  I put my electronic sous chef to work once more.

I gently unwrap the papyrus thin leafs of phyllo.  I only need enough to make six. I take out what I need and replace the rest in a ziplocked baggy and back in the fridge. I'll make Salmon Wellingtons this week I said to the inner self, justifying ways to eat more of that crispy buttery pastry.

I take one sheet, lay it on my bench. Opp, uhh! My hair falls in my face. It wasn't a tactful hairstyle, using just a clip to hold my hair back.  I run to the powder room and readjust. I have too much hair on my head, time for a haircut? I quickly call the salon to book an appointment for the following day.  How easily I digress.

Back to my pastry, that I playfully paint the warm liquid gold, slightly salted, over the first sheet. Sugar and spice makes everything nice! I sing to myself as I then scatter a blend of cinnamon and castor sugar over the buttery layer.  My finger tips glisten from the oily shellack and the grainy texture of the sugar. I lick my thumb and then my index and middle fingers together. 

So imagine, if you will: Savoury-sweet. But more sweet than savoury! Rich slightly salted melted butter with a lingering warmth of cinnamon and flash of sweetness at the end. What does it remind you of? Christmas? Thanksgiving? Maybe Snickerdoodles? When's the last time you had a Snickerdoodle? *note to self...make Snickerdoodles*

I finished the layers trying not to lick my fingers between each addition.  Who cares? I'm the only one eating them! Might as well lick the pan you're going to bake them in! I dared myself. No, no...no licking pans or fingers. I frantically wash my hands. Then I washed them again after each layer. A thought of my childhood flashes by, as I remember licking the last Dorrito chip in the bowl before my little brother could get to it. The things kids do. Haha!

I had doctored up cylinders out of tin-foil, 6 in total, to wrap my greasy sheets of cinnamon-sugar around. They held well and sat in military fashion, 2 up 3 across. I like military fashion. I liked the tidiness of it. 

Into the oven my six butter cigars go. I turn my attention to the heart of the matter. The ricotta cream.  

I push down with my finger, the top of the cheese, stark white and fluffy. If clouds had a flavour, I'd hope it tasted like whipped ricotta cheese with vanilla and sugar.  

I plop the billowy puff of ricotta into a bowl and turned it round and round with my rubber spatula. I pull open my baking cupboard and tip-toe to reach my warm spices. You know the ones...

The ones that taste of comfort and joy. Of mulled wine and apple pie. Maybe banana bread or plum pudding. A flashback to my Nanny's Black Cake comes to mind.

But I don't need ALL of these to appear. This is about the creamy unctuousness of that ricotta! So my final choice...freshly grated nutmeg. Less often means more.

Sand paper sounds of the hard husky nutmeg grated over the ricotta floating down like delicious saw dust. The fragrance reminds me of eggnog. Nutmeg has the ability to make the mellowest of flavour profiles become rich and satisfying. Nutmeg = Magic. Not too much, as we decided, less is more.

I turn to the other end of my counter top and see a brown jar that says "SUGAR" on the front. Beside that jar were two other jars that say "COFFEE" and the other "TEA." I feel compelled to make a cuppa (tea) and do so in my favourite teacup. 

Imagine, if you will: A kettle whistles. Water is boiled. On standby is a teabag and 2 lumps of sugar in a small teacup.  Now, pour your just boiled water into that idle cup.  Watch it go from clear to rusty red, then to an almost crimson brown. Clanking your teaspoon in that cyclone of orange pekoe, crushing those sweet lumps, dissolving.  Keep stirring, and while you do, pour that milk (or in my case evaporated milk) in the middle of that typhoon. A pinch of cardamom powder and sip.

But my affair with my sugar tin was not over. I grab a tablespoon and add a scoop into my ricotta. Whipping and folding, adding vanilla then chopped dark chocolate. Have I made too much?  I mean there's only 6 cannolis. I could make more shells if need be. No need to waste such a lovely filling. Then I thought...No, you can't just EAT the rest. Crazy.

I rest my ricotta mash-up in the fridge, and continue to sip my tea.  I peep in the oven, oh! The shells look well tanned.  They lay on a red sil-pat, sizzling away like they've spent the day at the beach, fell asleep and woke up just in time to turn over, and NOT burn. 

I catch a hint of the cinnamon as I open the oven door and I get excited! I do a little half-time performance in my kitchen doing a pirouette on my tip-toes. Socked feet, grey surfer shorts that say "Billabong" on the tush and my beloved fry guys tribute tee.  Super Bowl, eat your heart out! Keep your chili dogs and nachos with Chez-Wiz...I got the cannolis!

I remove my crackly cinnamony vessels of joy out of the oven and allow them to cool.  

Now...the waiting game.  Everyone involved in this operation needs to chill out. Time to check Twitter, Facebook...Twitter again.  Oh Instagram, Facebook. Comment, comment, like, wait no, UNlike...nah Like it anyways.  WhatsApp, change settings, change background. Download app. Uninstall it, because it's the wrong one.  

Wait. Let's decorate these babies! I run back to the kitchen, grab the chocolate and give Chef Mike another assignment. I begin to riffle through my baking cupboard again to find pistachios and spill them frantically across my cutting board.

Slicing through emeralds. My chef's knife rocks back and forth to create a crumble of green gems scattered on my wooden block.  I scoop them into a bowl, my chocolate melted perfectly. Chef Mike to the rescue! 

I dip one end and then the other into the shiny chocolate. 

Imagine, if you will: Velvet chocolate, rippled cocoa ribbons looking for a companion to meet, fall in love with and never let go of. That companion is Her Majesty, the elegant pistachio who sits in a bowl beside him. The soft texture of the warm chocolate collides with chopped jewels of verdant wonder and they join. A holy matrimony indeed.

I fetch my filling and load it into a zip-locked bag.  I snip the corner and begin to pipe the filling into the cooled and bedazzled cylinder. From one end, then the other, the pastries fill up. 

I line them up, once again, in military fashion. This time on a white platter. 

My heart leaps. I feel inspired. I feel happy. 

To the gentleman who inspired the idea and then to write it down, I say many thanks.

Here's hoping your imagination tastes what I write!

With love,

The Girl who Likes to Cook

xo 

Georgetown Mornings

The distinctive chime of a bicycle bell. A rap on the door. 
My eyes stare up at the rickety ceiling fan spinning slowly as if to make the room warmer before getting cooler.

Sssss click sssss click.

It turns and whirls in its turquoise glory pushing the cob webs in the corners aside with its less than adequate breeze.

My toes stick to the freshly mopped hard wood floor as I creep to the edge of the kitchen where Nanny, my grandmother, stood.

She swats the fruit flies away from sliced pink guava gleaming on the windowsill.

"Milk man here! Edward, take the change from the table we need 3 bottles for today!" Her raspy voice calls out the window down to the courtyard.

Sweet onions sizzle and a chopped tomato hisses as it hits the skillet.

The tapping of eggs as if they're dancing in a boiling watery bath, 
Doing a jig at the bottom of an aluminium pot.

The smell of bread being toasted over the stove top and the sizzle of butter in a scorching warped frying pan.

She glances in my direction to catch me peaking around the corner, rubbing sleep from my eyes and yawning a gulp of morning air into my lungs. Shy me...my face grows warm and I try to make a mad dash.

But she scoops me up and kisses my face.

"You're the first and that's why you get the most love" my Nanny says as she sits me on counter top.  Her touches of grey hair around her temples fade to black with her neatly tied up-do.  Her frock, navy blue with small pink flowers, feels silky as I thumb the corner of her sleeve.  She cuts slices of cheese and lays them on the china plate next to the saltine crackers slathered with rich butter so yellow it reminds me of Big Bird's feathers.

I wiggle my bottom to the edge and leap hoping my acrobatics would impress her. Not to mention my stunning Care Bear pj's were also quite impressive.

I hear mom stirring in the living room with her sisters. Dad sits at the long cherry wood dining table, flipping through the local newspaper, shaking his head and furrowing his eyebrows.

Nanny misses my dismount and I land with a thud. She turns and I make my escape. My feet grip the sea foam green kitchen tiles as I collide into him.

The smell of Old Spice Aftershave fills my nose and I throw my arms around Nana's burly neck. Once again I'm mid-air in his arms. Swinging me, twirling me as I giggle. A dignified man he was.  Serious yet silly.  His tickles would bring me close to suffocation...death by laughter.

In his pocket he carried a single tiny notebook, wrapped with multi-coloured rubber bands and a pencil. I always wondered what so important in that little book that it needed to be held so tightly with elastics. Next to that was a small comb, in case of a hair emergency.  For a man his size, he dressed to impress. Platinum white hair with a touch of noir slicked in place strand by strand. Important business for an important man.

Tea simmers away and boiled eggs are peeled. The kitchen overflows with the scent of something growing crispy and golden. I can smell how deliciously brown its becoming. She lines up dish after dish, and the aroma floats through the house.  All 4 of my uncles rumble up the stairs passing mom, highly focused on the delicious presentation steaming away at the table.
                    

But my grandfather, Mr. Oscar, The Boss...whom I called Nana, carries me away in my laughing state to the veranda.

The clip clop of hooves, the smell of diesel in the open air. Palm trees peak over terra cotta roofs and in the distance I see Edward carrying a sack of rice on his head and a bucket of blue crabs in his hand.

Nana made me a special bench that I sat on as we watched together; a Georgetown morning come to life.

I was the first one after all. A seat that's just for me.

Then appeared a mystery.

A bowl. A stainless steel one polished to shine and entice.

"Eh boss! Boss! Where we keep de 3/4 inch bolts? I find de nut dem but no bolts!"

The voice of Uncle Tarquin echoed up to him over the concrete.

"Check the back store room!"

The banter over and under the veranda still didn't get me to take my eyes off that bowl he held so firmly in his hands. His fingers were chubby, I looked at mine, tiny and pale.

What's in it? Is it for me? What could it be?

He sits in his wicker chair as if it were a throne and he like a King. His hard hands grip mine with grace and finally I managed to sneak a peak...the contents of this mysterious bowl.

"Come. Let me show you how to eat and enjoy!" He bellows in his deep voice.

There they were, mangoes small and leathery. With beauty marks of black and rosy pink cheeks.

He placed the ripe fruit in my hands, as he held one of his own.

"Do like what I do," he said.  Holding the mango and bringing it to his lips. He bit a hole into the greenish yellow flesh and tore it with his mouth.  I did the same and the bitter skin left a tingle on my tongue.

Slowly he tore the skin with his fingers, "But don't pull it all off, leave enough to hold, baby..."

The smell was rich and sweet. As florescent orange as the sun, the daunting task of eating this mango is too complicated. How? Where do I start?

He smiles, then laughs! His belly shakes as he shows his toothy grin from ear to ear. He watches on in amusement. Blushing again, I wipe my face with the back of my arm as the juice drips down my chin and onto my blue and white sleeper.

"I don't know how..." I say "Cut it for me?" I ask.  Holding up the mushy, man-handled mango - batting my eye lashes.

"Eh!" He bellows! I jump in my seat.

"Learn to eat it the right way! Come now, try!"

Frustrated.  I don't care! So I bite down. I tear in and sink my teeth into this golden fruit.  Feeling my teeth hit the stone in the middle I hold on for dear life.  I just may lose this fruit if I don't!

Chewing away, slurping up the pulp while licking my fingers. My cheeks are sticky, and the stringy pieces of fleshy fruit catch my teeth and tongue.  Like shrapnel after a grenade going off, strewed bits of green and yellow peel lay on the concrete floor of the balcony.  I flick the skin off my fingers, and it lands on my toe. It is then I notice my pj's are no longer the same colour as when I woke up that morning.

An orange abstract painting on my one perfectly clean jammies.

I look up and see mom watching me through the rot-iron gate of the veranda. Gently smiling. 

I then see him neatly devour his fruit with not so much as a lost drop. He pears up and grins as he pulls out his handkerchief. Wiping my chin, fingers, hands and my toe. Then lifting me to sit on his lap to complete mission: clean-up.

I hear the clattering of plates, men talking loudly, then sharply interrupted by a honk from the lorry in the street.

He carries me through the house once again and puts me down in front of that cherry wood table where my uncles and father sit. My smile wide, mango in one hand, and yellow handkerchief in the other. A sense of victory. I did it.  I ate my first mango. Properly.

He sits at the head of the table, joining his sons and begins to eat from the spread in front of him, laughing and chuckling.

Nanny picks me up, holds me over the sink and washes my face. Sitting in her lap she feeds me breakfast...so begins my day...

So goes my Georgetown Morning

xo,

A Girl Who Likes to Cook & Loves to Eat - age 5 and a half

She is Shy...

She is shy with
Long black hair
Twisted into a bun

She still wears kajal over
Chestnut shaped eyes

Smiles to herself in the locker room
As she slips a crisp chef's jacket
Over slender shoulders.

She is shy.
She gracefully drapes an apron 
Over her hips, hiding her petite body

She is shy.
Seeking shelter behind the bench 
Kneading golden pasta dough

Shy she is...
Day dreaming of a mysterious man
Who loves pastries and 
Midnight picnics on the beach 

She giggles at the thought 
She blushes to herself
She bites her lip 
She is shy

She confidently stirs
White wine beurre blanc
Gingerly seasons with finger tips
Tasting on the back of her hand

She ran back to the walk-in
Tip-toeing reaching to the top shelf
Fresh herbs, bright and green

Sharpens a knife
Shiffonade

The side door opens
Frank the Bread Guy
Italian Olive oil skin and built bakers arms
Dusty brown hair and hard jaw line

She blushes again
Frank says hello
She smiles as she tugs her apron

Indeed she is shy but still has
A voice that is gentle but firm


Bursts of steam billow from ovens
Dead of summer
Blistering hot kitchen

Sweat trickles down her spine
Pooling at the dip of her back
A crisp white chef's jacket
No longer hides that petite figure
But clings to her curves

Her knife skills are precise
Her palette is developed
But she never claims perfection

She is shy
And She is strong
Will lift a sack of potatoes on her own

She won't take the credit
Humbled by the compliments

She stays behind the scenes
Happy to peak out at a
Live service, smiling customers
Jolly tummies

She caves to her sweet tooth
Sharing the last slice of tiramisu
With Capone, her partner in crime
Kitchen duo

He yanks her side towel
And flicks the back of her ear
Undoes her hair

She pouts
Burns him with her gaze
Elbows him in the ribs
Pulls the draw string on his apron

Endurance to go to the end
A heavy sigh at the close of the night
A coy smile and a sensation of relief
Face glowing
Eyeliner smudged

She is shy
But has energy to last
Passion to drive

She is shy 
But she's tough

Still a lady

She is shy
She is a chef
She is A Girl who Likes to Cook


xo,

The Girl 

At First Sight of You

Funny how love at first sight gets you. And if it does, how lucky do you feel? Maybe you feel a little mad? A touch of insanity? Loopy and dizzy yet alive! As if each cell in your body has one single purpose, and that is to attain your muse.

*giggle*

Sometimes...crazy is good.

At First Sight of You

I recall the first time I saw you, I wasn't alone. 
And I blushed, feeling my face grow hot.
I held my breath.

This is love and,
Love is simple. 

And since I had heard about you before 
Then finally was given the opportunity to meet face to face...
I couldn't object, it would be rude, no?

Then there you were...
Oh my heart fluttered the second you appeared. 

Life wasn't the same again.

I fixed my hair and bit my lip as I often do. 
My palms were in a fist and I could feel 
A trickle 
A shiver slip down my spine
I wiggled in my little black dress.

But you looked aloof. 
Maybe you're just confident in your simple existence. 
How wicked you play! 

In my bold and eager manner 
I looked you up then down. 
Your glow, your heat and then I catch a hint of your sweet smell. 
Gosh, what are you doing to me? 

You're wearing me down...
And how!
Very few possess the power oh but you
You...How wicked you play, indeed!                
                                 
Through amber stained glass windows you peak up to see me 
And knowing so shamelessly I stare back at you.  

I'm looking through you searching for maybe a sign?
Or maybe a secret.             

I cannot resist you. 
My mind began to flicker out of frustration and excitement. 
You looked so good and I want to jump into you. 
Golden, Silky...I bet your taste....sigh intoxicating...      

The crazy is setting in! 
You make me want to ruin you to get to you. 
Crush you. 
Destroy your simple perfection.
So no one else will want you...only me

I need you badly. I cannot fight my desire to have you any longer!

I lose control and I hit you. Then I hit you again.  
It excites me because now I see your inner beauty. 
Now mine.
I dig deep into you and my eyes close.

You're sweeter than my imagination lead me to believe.  
Your cool yet tough shield was easy for me to break, 
Like you wanted me to shatter you into pieces.  
My intentions were to get to all of you and I did.

Like satin you wrap around me. 
Your taste is on my tongue. 
I've forgotten where I am and the company I keep.

And in a flash I loved you. You loved me. Then you disappeared.  
Leaving me longing for our next mad encounter.

You made me crazy over you
You made me crave you. 
I tried to forget how deliciously bad  
Yet how blissfully good you make me feel...

You are the one
You are the end of days
You are my first Creme Brulee...

Like it's the Last Day

The Scene is Set:

Summer can't end,
I said to myself

I slipped on my skinny jeans
Flip my black hair back into a roll. It's grown quite long this summer.
I pulled my favourite grey shirt on over my head

It fell just above my hips.

Nude lipstick, why am I bothering with lipstick? I asked myself
I always bite my lips.

I smooth a layer on anyways.

A young lady ought to look her best, you never know who's watching you. 
My mother's aristocratic voice hums in my head.

I push my feet into green flats that had a strap that slings behind my heals.
I love these shoes. I will keep them forever, I decided.

I bounce down the stairs and scoot into the kitchen in my animated style. My arms flailing as if to give a bear hug to the universe.

A bottle of water, a granola bar - almond peanut butter
I riffle through the fruit basket and find a Granny Smith apple.
I don't wait, I rub it's waxy emerald skin on my thigh
Buffing it to a shine.

I crunch in. The sour sweet juice provokes my salivary senses to jolt.

"You ready?" mom asks from the powder room. She too, fixing her make-up.

"Uh-huh," I said, smacking my lips from the tang of the apple.

Summer can't be over yet, why is it so short? I have to dig out my jackets and mittens. Uhh. However, I do need boots. Note to self - buy boots..sexy ones.

We were about to lock up the house as Oreo sits at the door, wondering why or maybe not wondering at all.  I pat her head. Her ears flex in appreciation. 

The mirror just by the front door begs to be looked at, as mom fiddles with her over-size hand bag.  I look at myself. My light tanned skin only got a small application of face cream. I look into my own eyes, I like my eyes...yes, yes I do. The inner me hugged myself for the compliment.

I pulled out of my canvas purse, a pencil of black kaajal. I popped open the lid and swiped a dark line across the top lash and then the other.  I swept it across the lower lids as well.  I flicker my eyes and look again. Dark and I liked it that way. All I needed to feel 'made up' today. I ate my lipstick *apply again*

The Journey Begins:

I drove, mom fiddled with the CD player.  Then she began rummaging through her purse again.  She's always looking for something, what? I have no clue but I bet its right at the very bottom.

We parked at the train station. Bought tickets and sat patiently under the shelter waiting for the Toronto bound train.

Mom managed to find what she was looking for, a candy bar. I laugh to myself, mom and her sweet tooth.

We hop on the train. 25 minutes and we'll be downtown.

The descending 'ding ding ding' and a lady's voice speaks from train heaven "The Exhibition - Habour Front" alerts us.  We arrived, and we will dine at The Ex tonight.

Like a fever taking control of our heads and stomachs, mother and daughter are determined to reap the spoils of summer for autumn joins us soon.  Dine now or forever hold your peace...

Like it's the Last Day: 
Hiss and pop of hot oil
Golden brown corn-dogs hang upside down.
Ball park mustard or Dijon if you're trying to be classy about it

Crackle of popcorn lost on the street
under my feet, what a pity.
It was pink caramel

We meander through the crowd
Crying lost children reunite with 
Frantic mothers, cross between fury and affection.

Screams and rumbles of a roller coaster
The click-clack of a fair way wheel
A game for those who fancy a losing battle  

A romantic couple holding hands
While the girl carries a giant stuffed monkey in the other
How nice of him to win it for her, I thought
I smile sheepishly to myself...moving on 

I could eat...I thought. What's good?

I fold my slice of cheese pizza in half
Lips shiny and slippery, orange sheen.
Marinara sauce on my chin 
Pull and stretch, mozzarella tightrope
A bridge between me and my next bite.

Lipstick? Pizza gloss is much more practical. And delicious.

I glance down slightly, mom is shorter than me
And I'm 5'3.

She jabs her fresh cut french fries into ketchup
Walking beside me, the kid inside her is in sensory overload.
She reached and rubs the sauce off my face.

"You still eat like a child, you know?"
She made me blush out of shame.
Her laugh was more of a quiet giggle, very lady like.
"It's okay, you're with your mom."
Full-stop. Grin.

I pause in the crowd. She waltz's over to the ticket booth.
Her favourite ride is the cable car. 

I look over my shoulder and see something 
Glistening and ruby red
Curves to kill

Voluptuous 

It's hard to look away
How enticing
How sinful

I walk closer and I see another but undressed
Oddly, not nearly as appealing 
Covered looked more elegent...
A little mystery is good

And as it stands idle waiting to be dressed
I watch in awe. And so does everyone else.
No shame in staring.
But oh, what's this...

A cascade of hot red
Sticky sweet
Sugar Lava...
Like a velvet shawl that bedazzles...

So green once before, like the one on my kitchen table
Young, untouched, not even a blemish.
Perfect just got a new red dress. 

A nudge and I come to.
Mom's eyes meet mine.
In her hands are tickets

And a juicy red candy apple  
Like the pretty one standing before me

I smile a big smile. Biggest one I could find.
She pinched my cheeks and links her arm in mine

We sat on that cable car
Chatting, looking over the crowd.
Deciding what to eat next 
We watched Toronto's stunning skyline as the sun fell behind us

We dined well. 

We dined like it was the last day...

With all my love to you my reader, my motivation, my inspiration, I say thank you...

      

xo,

The Girls who Likes to Cook