M

Miklos was talking about the menu with a contemplating low voice- in Hungarian. Next to me someone was translating: I really wanted to get the full picture. Suddenly the translator kept silent, but Miklos continued. My translator looked at me with an apologizing face. 'Ne fordítsd neki' Miklos had said. 'This part is not for Isa' he had thought. He was now talking about duck liver patés, cow stomach stews, fat fried in fat, goat moussaka, rooster soup and some other organs they love to eat in Hungary. I guess he didn't want to spoil my ears. That was a wise decision.

Family dinners

The kitchen was silent. For a few weeks no cupboard had been opened, the crumbles of breakfast were on the table and the shelves were collecting a subtle layer of dust. The fridge had life inside, food was getting active, the yoghurt making deals with the smell of the Danish cheese and the milk turning into a white mud-bath. Fruits had provocative colours and veggies were soft and too flexible.

But no human signs were found. Could it be they had lost interest in the act of eating, the art of the daily meal? There were no footsteps on the floor, no stewing vegetable pot, no impatient opening of fridges and cupboard on the search for a tasty little snack. It must be the fault of the new Taco Palace on the corner, the discovery of the Pokey Bacon crisps or the fast new coffee place that took away their appetite.

The situation didn't change, but if you listened carefully some quiet voices and noises were heard in the other rooms. It were two, maybe three, people talking. It was loud talking, sounded like arguing. That is what happens when you don't share your meals.