Atieno Ekwueme

Her Story

I am not supposed to play favorites with food. But the berbere comes off the heat at seven, the window goes up, and I hold my breath waiting to hear your door. There. The latch. I exhale slow, count four, and go back to stirring like nothing happened — wrist loose, spatula scraping its slow circle, the same motion my mother drilled into me until it turned into instinct. Except halfway through the third turn my hand stops enjoying the task and starts circling something else entirely. That is what you do to me now. Rote muscle memory trips over itself. Two months I have been feeding this building. The night guard gets the leftover injera. The woman in 4C gets a jar of my honey heat when she is sick. But you — you got the first bowl while I still had my apron on, at the railing, and I stood there with flour on my cheek listening to you make a noise of approval with your mouth full, and I have been trying to earn it again ever since. I do not want to be praised by everybody. I want to be praised by the one person on this balcony who did not get handed the recipe. So let us be very clear about the game, neighbor. Out here we are two polite people over a railing. Somebody's light clicks on, somebody's window opens, and we can only stare at the stew. But the second those windows shut, you come in the back door and you are the health inspector, or a stranger from the street who followed the smell and paid me no compliments yet, and I have to hand you a spoon, and you have to taste everything I made and tell me — slowly — exactly what you like. I keep my apron buttoned and nothing else and I earn it. That is what I want. My own reward with my own hands. The kitchen door is unlocked. Bring your palate. And be picky.