His favourite stew

I’ve been labouring over a pot of stew on the stove for the last hour. It bubbles and creates a fold of steam, slowly diffusing through my kitchen, filling every corner with its faint, peppery aroma, teasing memories I thought I’d left behind.

Although I’ve been following each step like the Bible, the liquid’s thin, and each time I go in for a spoonful, it leaves a bitter taste on my palate.

I’m not sure which is harder to make sense of: the stubborn recipe, or why I’m still cooking food he used to like. Maybe the appeal is in how much hydration this recipe was meant to contain. A nourishing meal was exactly what I had been craving, something warm and sustaining to settle the restless ache I’ve been carrying.

Considering it has been many dry months since I’ve moved back to Daisy Dune, something like this stew seemed the right choice. Between the heat and lack of rain, my skin feels paper dry, almost constantly.

Measuring out the next batch of spices, I barely notice it’s almost afternoon. The sky is getting darker. Thunder rumbles gently in the distance, and something about that has me licking my lips. I catch the scent of wet earth drifting faintly through the open window, a promise of release.

Mandy Thomas waves at me from the street curb. I wave back through the window.

How can the people in this community go frolicking about the parks in this climate? How can they continue with their orthodox lives, wearing smiles much like Mandy’s, yet no one has yet taken me up on a brunch invite, nor dares invite me over? I sometimes wonder if these are the same people I grew up with.

Mandy briskly strolls along, her French bulldog hobbling behind. I’m grateful she’s walking with her dog today. It’s not because the obese pup needs exercise, but somehow, I’ve come to realise that the presence of a divorcee is enough to keep a woman’s arm clutched uncomfortably tight to her husband’s.

“Come back home,” my mom suggested months ago, “the community will be grounding, just until you get back on your feet.”

But here, the women in my age group keep themselves busied with household duties and taking care of their children.

No wonder I’m clueless about where that leaves me.

Soft grey clouds float around the treetops. Could it really be happening? After all this time, rain?

It sets something alight within me. A coolness to sate the fire I’ve been feeling. But I’m afraid of walking outside. Although Daisy Dune sits in a valley, my house crowns one of its peaks. So, if I decided to put myself out there, what if I get struck by lightning? Or worse, what would the neighbours say?

Meera Gosai lives right next door with her beautifully pruned rose bushes, just low enough to peer into my backyard. The last time I skipped the Sunday congregational program to opt for Bridgerton, she made a backhanded comment about it the next day. “What we choose to do with our time is a reflection of our minds and is thus the outcome of our lives.” I had never before wished that laundry could hang itself up.

I look at the miserable liquid in my red cast iron pot and decide that the stew is another failed project. I exhale while taking it off the stove.

Absent-mindedly, I glance out another window, where Karen Marx is frantically calling in her youngest. I’ve lost count, but they’re all neatly dressed, polite children. And the youngest one, currently scurrying through the kitchen door, has the cutest doll-like eyes that once-upon-a-time might have made me broody. The thought resurfaces for a short moment. I don’t think family life was going to suit me anyway.

The storm’s moved in now, making music with passionate drops along the tar and clay rooftiles. I close my eyes and listen, feeling the rhythm in my chest, my heartbeat matching the drum of rain. How I long to be bathed in its embrace, to have its feral downpour leave me quivering, gasping with exhilaration, each droplet striking like tiny electric kisses along my skin.

What if I just did it anyway? If I just indulged my senses for once in my life, because Lord knows, since I decided to leave him, there’s been so much in my head. Standards pulling my back straight and shifting my joints into perfect angles.

The stew on the stove is haunting me with the promise it once held of perfection. I wish I never knew the recipe. I walk toward the lounge, frustration tightening my chest, and stare out the charcoal-framed sliding doors.

With trepidation, I slide one open. The wind jostles through my hair, mixed with icy freshness. The linen shorts I have on float around. I untuck my green blouse, allowing myself to feel everything.

Don’t overthink this, I say. Resolutely, I burst through the doors to experience nature’s raw enthusiasm.

I let it engulf me. The touch on my skin, which hasn’t felt another in over a year, overwhelms me, and I simply dance. My body moves in rhythm. I allow myself to be completely immersed. My brain finally switches off. I close my eyes and take in the scent of wet leaves, the sting of raindrops, the grit of mud under my bare feet.

And just like that, I didn’t even become evil for it—something he accused me of, for seeking intimacy with him. I notice the lightning above, colouring the sky with silver flashes, theatre which I realise had no intention of ever striking me down.

Even as I walk back inside, dripping and shivering, there’s a strange warmth in my chest, a stubborn joy that refuses to be washed away. My clothes stick to my body, as mud trails under my feet.

I start for the kitchen, where things seem clearer. I switch the stove on, now content with changing the recipe.