Stories. Part 1

For M. preparing a meal was telling a story. He would never think of vitamins or calories, of health or quality. For him it were the colours and the composition, the aromas and the memories. He'd never touch recipes nor cookbooks, but walk through markets and find vegetables by smelling and weighing. At home he would invent meals based on the mood he was in. He'd crush apples when angry and roll sushis when wanting to keep things together. He'd peel onions when trying to get to the bottom of things, knead bread when missing his misses. When everything was a mess he would start counting grains. His cooking he never planned, he'd just know when to take his Japanese knife. On a specific cold Saturday morning in February M. felt it was time to get ahead of things, to prepare for things coming. So he started to chop and cut, slice and peel, mix and blend. He invented a Chinese salad and threw seaweeds in the soup. He mixed grains and chopped leafy greens. Sauteeing carrots became painting and simmering veggies was only to clean the air. He started to gather and pile and when the sun slowly started to set, his kitchen contained more exotic dishes than a king could wish for. There was one thing: M. had forgotten to invite guests.

And that moment I walked by.