the lone surfer…unfinished…part four

21 Jul 2009 Leave a Comment

by nooshk in stories Tags: chinese food, stories, writing

Later, I get a craving for Chinese food, something sweet and salty. Noodles flecked with the red heat of hot chillies, beef with green peppers and crunchy cashew nuts, and little crisp filo pastry parcels full of vegetables and shrimp. And prawn crackers, fortune cookies and cold beer. My mum used to make great Chinese food; we would call it Hong Kong Sunday. It was the one day of the week when we would all make an effort to stay in, to not make a date with friends, to leave the car in the garage to even turn off the TV; even Dad would stay around, but never for too long. I remember how the steam from the cooking would fog up the windows, I used to sit on the work top and write messages in the condensation. There would be pots and pans all over every surface, mum would tie her hair up and put on an old pinny. She would put the radio on and sing along to Madonna or Michael Jackson… She would have a bottle of wine open next to her. She didn’t follow a recipe book; I guess she made it up as she went along, a little bit of ginger here, a splash of fish sauce there, two chillies one week, and three the next. It didn’t always taste the same, sometimes it was super spicy, sometimes hot and sour, sometimes more delicate with coconut and jasmine.

Every other day of the week, it was make your own supper, so normally I had toast or crackers or if I was feeling adventurous macaroni cheese. My brother, Jed, explained to me later, that it was the one day of the week when we pretended, when we put on our costumes and played the roles we had been given, and played them well. Adoring wife, mother, and homemaker. Dependable, strong and easygoing, father. Cheeky, caring and mischievous elder brother. Quiet, clever and thoughtful younger sister. He said it was only on a Monday morning that the masks came off for the week, and there they lay amongst the debris of the weekend until the next Sunday evening, when we would dutifully put them back on again. It was easy to see why we loved Sunday nights so much. They made us feel more like the other families that lived on our street, they made us feel normal I guess, they gave the week a sense of structure and calm, that was missing the rest of the time. Afterwards when we had eaten and the dishes and bowls were empty and my brother was lying in the middle of the floor complaining that he had eaten so much he would explode, my mum would start clearing away, slowly, washing, drying, sorting. It never occurred to me, to any of us, to offer to help.

That, I suppose, is probably why Chinese food is my comfort food now. It must on some level remind me of those Sunday nights, spent with my family when I knew that for one night there would be peace, quiet and an attempt at warmth. That’s what I need tonight I thought, peace, quiet, warmth. After a day spent in the past, dwelling on events in my dreams, there was no need not to retreat back there now. I pulled on my sweater, although the days here are hot, the nights soon turn cool. Put my sneakers on, grabbed my wallet and with a bang of the door, I was gone, out in the night, to seek my solace, my escape, in a steaming bowl of noodles.

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