The Drama Chef

Prose – Travel – Recipes

Category: Short Stories (Page 2 of 2)

Vanilla cream pie/bougatsa hybrid

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You are six years old, on a sunny Sunday. You are walking in the quiet streets, holding the hand of your gramma that looks huge and wise and smiles at you. The world is bright and safe, for you and for the street cats that lie on the cars, stretching in the sun or sitting in a Sphynx position, their eyes like slots, almost roaring but not quite.

You visited your aunts today, to show them your first drawings. You are six now, so you go to school. They are real drawings, water colours and everything, with your name written on the right-down corner, the letters big and uneven, going slightly downwards. A grown girl they say. You blush and you look down at your Sunday shoes, black with a silver buckle, already a bit dusty from a short run in the park. You wanted to pick up daisies, but gramma said you shouldn’t. Grandpa is softer; he lets you pick flowers and laughs at you when the tip of your nose gets yellow from the pollen. My little bee he says. Sometimes he catches a butterfly for you, but not often. When you ask why he says that when you touch too much a butterfly’s wings you destroy them, and they can fly no more. So you never ask for a butterfly again, but you always go and watch them close when they are sitting on the flowers – not touching.

“What are you thinking little one?” She looks at you from above, half-concerned, half-amused. Not waiting for the answer – “are you hungry? Let’s go and get something sweet. But you won’t tell mama or grandpa, deal?” Deal.

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Paprika Oregano Feta Bread

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The things you miss away from home are unexpected.

It’s not only about family and friends and loved ones, it’s not only about the places you grew up at, your school yard, the familiar park around the corner with the dry flowerbeds and the high, dusty trees.

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It’s the way the light falls through the kitchen windows in the afternoons and how the roses swing in the breeze out in the balcony. It’s the smell of the neighbourhood cooking in the mornings, windows open and low voices chatting. It’s about cats that lie eternally on the car tops or chase each other playfully. It’s the sound of your parents talking over coffee in the mornings, having always an argument about something trivial, keeping their voices down not to wake you up. It’s how you run answer the doorbell and hang around the hall till your brother comes upstairs and you jump up to hug him. How your stereo still has the same radio frequencies memorised as 15 years ago. And yes, it’s about flavours too, flavours that chase you everywhere you go, but only really taste how they are supposed to when you are there, sitting among them and fighting over the last piece of whatever was baked today.

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The Valentine’s Titanic

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It was a pact. They would never celebrate this bulshit, materialistic, commercialised – give me my roses, another red balloon, oh and some chocolate – holiday. Simply ridiculous. They have been two years together, a long-distance – one weekend every month – Christmas with own families, kind of relationship.

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