Summer Stew

My small kitchen underused all this time. Now empty. Oh no, here it is, the tornado disguised as a human being. Ladies and gentlemen, I am presenting to you, my daughter.

Half of the tomato goes on the floor. Honestly, it is a good thing I am dead, because I would have hated to tell you again that you are just like me when it comes to cooking. No skills whatsoever. Nevertheless, I love watching you make the summer stew, my favorite Macedonian dish. It reminds me of my childhood days. Ah, nostalgia, it hits you and is always there when you don't need it.

Funny enough, even though you cook like a tiger is chasing you, well like you do everything in life really, but there is an elegance in that movement. I always admired that in you, my sweet girl.

Here come the bell peppers. First the way that you are cutting it, I expect into the dish at least one fingernail, if not a whole finger, anything is possible at this point. Well frankly I was not better at it, I cut the pepper the exact same way, but I assumed you will learn how not to do it, guess I failed at that, a minus for me. Oh, here comes strike number three at this point, not that I am counting, but for this I just knew you would not take out the seeds. I told you so many times. I even wrote it in the recipe in big letters: NO SEEDS. Did I mention I am dead? And that being a good thing, because I am losing my cool right now. I absolutely hate the seeds, when you were little I told you, you have to have patience to remove them and then wash the bell pepper and everything will fall from it, simple as that, but no, why bother listening to your dead mother, I think, I am yelling now, so loud there are chances you might even hear me. But you did not hear me, you continued doing your thing, preparing our dish. Now, you thought of something, that I am proud of teaching you, cooking is just better with music on, you took the JBL and blasted on full volume Chet Baker, Blue Valentine, my favorite guy, I used to tell you if I should describe my sadness in a musical way I would say it is Chet Baker’s melody and Damien Rice’s voice. I am glad that we thought about good music with your dad, it was his thing mostly, only Chet is probably something you got from me. Okay, I started spiraling here for a minute, I guess that is what music does to you, but it is time to concentrate on your cooking again.

You took THE pot, the one with so many scratches on it. This move I approve, that pot is just the right one for this stew, we do not own anything else that would fit the right amount of this dish, and it is my favorite pot after all. We used to cook so many wrong and terrible dishes in that pot. It was our thing, Sunday nights: let's destroy a recipe. Italian ones were our favorite. I can remember how each and one of these scratches was made, honestly, best time of my life. You placed the bell pepper into the pot, put some butter, added more butter. You always went a little extra on the butter. That was our secret ingredient in this stew, not part of the original recipe, but who cares. Recipes are to be adjusted.

Okay. I caught myself on my own web. You can have the seeds. Put in as many as you want. Recipes are there to be adjusted, as is anything else in life, really. I will not say a word again about the seeds. You can have it.

The bell pepper went a little black on some parts. That is okay. When that used to happen, we would tell your dad it was just the way we preferred it. Not that we made a mistake, God forbid. Me and you, we never make mistakes in cooking. We are simply flawless.

Time for the tomatoes. I love this part, you stand there admiring these tomatoes, smelling and smiling, perfect red color, juicy, taken from the neighbor’s garden, our lovely Vera, producing the best tomato in whole Macedonia, I will for sure miss it. The smell of this dish, even when it is not done properly, travels to this other world where I am now. Swear to God it is so strong I think it will pull me out of the grave.

Sweet, sweet girl. I always knew this would be the first meal you would make without me. It just has that pull of identity, belonging, togetherness. If love was going to be a dish for sure it would’ve been this, simple but effective.

The summer stew is ready. It looks just the right amount of perfect to me. Bon appétit, or Nazdravje, as Macedonians would say. Oh, I see it. You did not forget, and I cannot tell you how happy I am because the dish would be incomplete without these two additions. Always, just always, the perfect combination: bread and cheese. The bread fresh from the bakery, soft as your soul, you did this right, no cutting, sneezing a bite at a time and buckwheat directly from the pan, then top it up with sheep cheese.

Hell, wait for me. I am coming for one last bite, one last I love you in your ear, and one last kiss on your nose, as we did when you were just a little child.

You take a bite. Here it comes, you start moving your body in that little dance. You have done this since you were eighteen months old. And now you are humming, one of the songs you wrote for us.

I love you, my elegant tornado.