by Various
Before you think me deranged, I don't mean I get out the pots and pans and a gas ring and start frying onions in economy class. I mean that I pick a meal and imagine cooking it. From choosing the fresh ingredients, chopping and preparation and then each stage of the actual cooking until the finished dish is ready for imaginary eating. Granted, it takes a lot of focus and willpower to do this and not cut corners. But that's not a problem, I have plenty of both. If it takes three minutes to soften chopped onion over a medium heat in reality then that's how long I take to imagine it. It's almost a meditation.
So, today's in-flight meal is: Winter Chilli. As follows...
First, heat the powdered spices in a dry, non-stick pan over a high heat. You'll know when they're hot enough because the powder will crack like earth in a drought and the room will be filled with a rich, almost curry-ish smell.
I've always been a keen (but strictly amateur) cook. I like to try new things, experiment. And I have a well-equipped kitchen in which to do just that: Le Creuset pans, Sabatier knives, KitchenAid mixer, a proper butcher's block; you get the idea.
This recipe is a sort of cross between a tex-mex chilli con carne and a Mexican mole. A true mole has over a hundred ingredients and takes up to a couple of days to cook (which, I suppose would be perfect for a flight to Australia) so I just sort of mole-d a chilli recipe and ended up with something unexpectedly good. It's become a special dish for me. Something I cook for milestones: celebrations, commiserations and reconciliations. Fixing those 'special moments' in the memory more firmly. I cooked it the first time my ex came to dinner.
It was early on in our relationship and it was winter. I liked her alot but wasn't sure how she felt about me. As it turned out, I realise now that right up to the end she kept her secrets. It was too cold to meet in town and she had agreed to come over to my place and be cooked for. This felt hopeful. Two previous occasions had shown that we were physically very attracted to each other but we hadn't yet had sex.
I spent the day tidying and cleaning so that my mid-terrace might appear as inviting as possible. I wanted her to think that it might also be worth seeing in daylight. Put bluntly, I was hoping for breakfast as well as dinner.
My ex arrived, appropriately late and over warm winter beer we continued the courtship dance of exchanging information, opinion and belief. That evening we told each other everything and everything we told each other was in perfect accord. Obviously subsequent events proved that to be wrong, but the point is that at the time, that's how it felt.
We both loved all of Miles Davis' music, but felt that John Coltrane had lost the plot in his later career. Both without siblings and so we knew how to share. Dogs were better than cats; eating and drinking were pleasures too good to lose for the sake of a flat stomach; and terrorism was a theoretical worry that the West had theoretically brought upon itself through centuries of poor foreign policy. Two liberals falling in love. Everything felt nicely inevitable.
Add some oil and the chopped chillies and onion. Reduce the heat a little so as to soften but not burn, otherwise the result might be bitter or unpleasant.
By the time the beer was gone, we were sitting close and the food was ready. We moved to the dining room and started on a spicy and heavy Shiraz while she paid me compliments on the food which went beyond simple social politeness.
I don't actually remember words from that evening. Neither am I going to do a Proust's madeleine and evoke the entire experience from the smell of a cumin seed. But what has stayed with me is the feeling of excitement, optimism and perfection that nothing could spoil. That evening was everything that I had hoped it would be.
From then on, my winter chilli became a sort of half-joking code for an evening that would end in sex. If one said to the other, “Do you fancy chilli tonight?” the other knew exactly what the menu was offering. It's nice when a relationship begins to develop that interpersonal shorthand that only the two of you share, isn't it? But the excitement, optimism and perfection? Well those are things that never last.
Raise the temperature, add the diced turkey (or your preferred alternative) and seal the meat in the hot oil and spice mixture.
Well, here we are at 33,000 feet, safely ascended and now cruising without incident. The seatbelt signs are off and the drinks trolley is almost here. About time, I had a few brandies at the terminal bar before boarding but they're beginning to wear off. Grandma in the seat next door has actually taken out some knitting of all things. Maybe she's scared of flying too and knitting is her back-up plan if annoying fellow passengers fails. I wonder how she got the needles through security? That would almost be worth asking but I really don't want a conversation. I imagine she has a peevish voice. Anyway, a quick drink for the chef and then on with our dish of the day.
Add the diced squash and the (similarly diced but also previously parboiled) sweet potato. Stir well and allow the heat to singe the edges a little.
One particularly memorable occasion when chilli led to sex was after an awful row that we had. My ex had moved in a few weeks earlier. Everything was continuing to be wonderful and it seemed only natural for her to move out from her parents' home and into mine.
We had a lot of fun playing house, buying a few key items together – a picture, an oil burner, a lamp – so as to make the place more 'ours'. And, I suppose, there was always some to-beexpected storming going on as we discovered new, cohabit-y things about each other. Seeing each other day-to-day, 24/7 for the first time. Really seeing the details of domestic hygiene values, kitchen storage preferences and finding out how the other has been spending their free time. That is, the time that was free of the other. The time that is no longer free now that all time is shared time.
Don't get me wrong, it was an adjustment that I wanted to make, but it was an adjustment nevertheless. You don't realise how little room you've got in your life until you try to fit another person into it. Maybe you don't agree. Maybe this is just my experience. Maybe one of us doesn't know what he's talking about. Anyway, I really was enjoying it, living with the ex; there was just some occasional friction.
The trouble was, we thought that all that was left to discover about each other was where on the tube we squeezed the tooth- paste. Turned out that there was something a little bigger still hidden away. And it came out in those first few weeks of domestic bliss.
To this day, I can't imagine how we got to the point of moving in together – by modern standards, basically a certificateless marital commitment – without finding out that we disagreed completely on the subject of children. Perhaps we assumed that, being so in tune regarding everything else, this would be the same. Or perhaps in some immeasurable way, we both knew that we would disagree and so put off raising it for as long as possible; forestalling the awful day. Either way, once the disagreement occurred, it would take the best chilli in the world to resolve our difference.
To sum up: I wanted kids; she didn't.
The subject came up one evening out of nowhere over a glass of wine; a cheap Chilean merlot, as I recall. (Incidentally, so strong is the association with domestic disagreement that I've avoided Chilean wines ever since.) The ex's basic position rested on her logic; namely that children completely changed (read: ruined) everything. Childbirth was a prolonged and painful process, and raising them was an expensive lifetime sentence commuted only by death. I was just being driven by some blind biological imperative over which I, as a civilised and intelligent being, should be able to exercise more control. It was her body and damned if she was going to have it deformed and damaged for anybody, even me.
All good, sound, rational arguments I had to concede. I agreed with every point she made and yet I still was adamant that I wanted children, that she should want them too and that she should have them with me. Have I mentioned yet that another thing we shared was stubbornness?
We stuck to our guns, elaborated on our arguments and increased our vehemence. All night long. Debate? Argument? Row? Who knows but it was proverbial t
hirsty work, and before we realised just how drunkenly engaged we both were with the other's recalcitrance, the best part of a three-litre winebox was gone.
By now we'd moved on from digging our trenches, finished taking potshots at each other and were now engaged in a mutual bombardment of emphatic insults. Not good. Luckily, in a sense, the sheer volume of alcohol meant we reached oblivion before armageddon. That night I slept on the sofa in my own house. This struck me vaguely as unfair but I was drunk enough for my inner gentleman to emerge; on this point, at least.
Chop the tomatoes finely and drain the beans. Add both to the pan and stir well. Reduce the heat so that the mixture simmers gently for about 5 minutes.
The next morning, looking at each other across the breakfast table, sharing the paracetamol, we were at least subdued enough to feel the mutual shame and talk a bit more rationally. We might even have listened to each other; we were both too weakened not to.
I don't think we ever resolved the issue properly. Certainly not to the extent that either of us changed their fundamental views. Behaviour, yes; views, no. And that evening, I made a batch of peace-making winter chilli and we shared a bottle of the hair of the dog (South African pinotage this time) and the making up was almost worth the argument of the night before.
Time for another drink as the trolley dollies (and I do mean that in a most non-gender specific and disrespectful fashion) serve some real food. Of course, when I say ‘real’, I mean not imaginary. In terms of sustenance, I'm not sure that the rubber chicken, bashed potatoes and boiled-to-death green beans have as much to offer as the chilli. And this is just the first of two onboard culinary treats.
Grandma's asleep. I decide not to wake her for lunch. She might be hungry later but better that than we actually talk to each other. Besides, I'm doing her alimentary canal a favour. Small acts of kindness with thanks neither expected nor sought; that's what life is all about.
So far, so not too bad. There's been no turbulence; no crying brats (my own I wanted, other people's are to be avoided like the plague they are) and the co-pilot's just announced that we're ahead of schedule. Only the crushing claustrophobia and the ever-present fear of plummeting with which to deal. A good flight. So far.
The chilli's really coming on quite nicely. The secret at this stage is not to let it simmer too long without adding the next ingredients. If the mixture reduces down too much, gets too dry and viscous, then you end up having to add quantities of water just to keep the consistency right. And all water will do is dilute the richness you were after in the first place.
Before things go too far, add the red wine and mixed herbs. Stir well. Continue simmering.
“Why don't you want to marry me?”
We'd been living together for two years now. The subject of children hadn't been discussed again but I think we both knew that it hadn't gone away. So, unconsciously waiting for that particular shoe to drop as I was, the ex really caught me by surprise with the marriage question.
It had been a lovely day; a sort of Hollywood movie. The sort of day the young, loved-up couple enjoy just before one of them is diagnosed with cancer or runs over their favourite cat or something.
Breakfast in bed, sex, a walk into town, pub lunch, cinema in the afternoon and chilli for dinner; why did she want to go and spoil it? Busy looking the other way, I'd walked right out into the traffic and been blindsided while washing up.
Unlike the question of children, we had actually talked about marriage properly (and soberly) and I'd thought that we were in complete agreement. Marriage was fine for those who want it, but in the modern civilised world it was hardly necessary as a means to demonstrating commitment. There was no real social pressure any more. It was even faintly hypocritical to get married if you didn't have a religion; which neither of us did. As I said earlier, two liberals in love. Or so I thought.
Well, she was right, I didn't want to marry her. But I also thought she didn't want to marry me. Had she changed her mind? Had she been lying all along? Or if not lying, perhaps just going along with me, humouring me, hoping that sooner or later I'd see my error and drop to one knee? Ridiculous. Or was it?
I hadn't responded quickly enough to forestall the obvious follow-up question:
“Don't you love me?”
Christ! Not even “Don't you love me anymore?” This was serious, the past was suddenly, momentarily irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was did I love her now; did I want to marry her now. The danger was clear. Having spent two-plus years fitting her in, there was going to be a big hole if she left now.
I blurted and stammered out reassurances and protestations of devotion. Of course I loved her. (Good.) Of course I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. (Even better.) I hadn't suggested marriage because I thought that she didn't believe in it. (Only partly true, but the right thing to say under the circumstances.) She knew that I wanted children with her, surely that showed how committed I was? (Watch it, thin ice.) In fact, if she'd agree to have my children, I'd marry her tomorrow. (Damn!)
It was the Chilean merlot all over again: I was trying to blackmail her into carrying my child. In fact, it was worse than that because I wanted children, plural. I didn't care what happened to her; she was just a breeding pod to me. I wouldn't love her after she'd been pregnant and given birth which means I obviously didn't love her now because of what I was asking; it was scientifically proven that men had affairs after their wives became mothers. Why didn't I just go and have an affair now and be done with it? Tune in next week, folks, for more of the same; this programme could run and run. I had to do something.
Now sprinkle in a heaped teaspoon of brown sugar. Stir well. Continue simmering.
The ceremony was in the spring. It rained.
Grandma's starting to stir; her knitting has just fallen off her lap. I wonder what she's making? A little Aran straitjacket for some unlucky grandchild, no doubt. Said child will be forced at gunpoint by grim-faced parents to say, Thank you, Grandma, and any complaints about the scratchiness of the wool will be firmly shushed. I nip down the aisle to the toilet before she wakes up properly and realises she's missed her cordon bleu lunch.
Contrary to what you might think, I find the extremely confined space of airplane toilets rather comforting. My fears about flying aren't sensible and neither are my contingency plans. I don't pay attention to the arm-waving presentation on emergency procedures before take-off. I already know my procedure. Should any plane on which I'm a passenger start nosediving towards the ground, I will grab as many seat cushions as I can and then lock myself into the toilet. Wedged into such a confined space with enough foam padding and I stand a better chance of survival than if I just assume the 'crash position'.
On a rational level, I know that this is no more than an urban myth and that death is certain. But that doesn't stop me believing. Faith is unreasoning and born of fear and desperation. Put that on a t-shirt and sell it to Catholics.
By the time I return, Grandma has been provided with a foil coffin in which her late chicken lies in state. She glares accusingly at me as I sit down. I ignore her. She's hardly likely to want a nice, friendly chat now. Job done.
Even the most experienced cook can't afford to look away at the wrong moment. After a year and a half, we were still married, there was no sign of any children and it wasn't me who had the affair.
I don't know anything about him. I don't know who he was. I don't know how they met. I don't want to know how he made her feel. I don't want to hear how lonely she might have felt until he came along. I didn't want her to tell me it was all my fault. That's why I didn't ask any of the usual questions that are asked in TV soap operas, cinematic relationship dramas and chick-lit novels. I had all those questions, naturally. I just didn't ask them. I did tell you I had focus and willpower.
All I know for sure is that I came home early one day (what a cliché) and there was a scuffling and fumbling and dashing about upstairs accompanied by much hoarse and desperate whisperi
ng. When I went to investigate, I found the ex only partially dressed, my bed unmade and some man looking undecided: hide in the wardrobe or jump out the window (cliché heaped upon cliché.)
I decided to improvise rather than play the outraged cuckold and/or denounce them both from my moral high ground. I went downstairs again and started preparing the dinner, chopping onion, butternut squash and sweet potato and measuring out the spices.
The house is small and the foot of the stairs is next to the kitchen door. I kept the door shut and my back to it to give them a chance to sort themselves out. After twenty minutes, the door opened and she came into the kitchen and started to talk. Or tried to. I cut her off. I'm not interested, I told her, in excuses and explanations, in whys and wherefores, in lies and recriminations. I don't want to know who. I don't want to know when, or how often. I don't want to know what he's got that I haven't. I don't even want to know if it's going to stop. All I need to know is whether you are staying.
That did it. No dancing around the issue. No playing by the accepted rules of extramarital fallout. Just straight to the bottom line, everything else is mere detail. Are you staying or going? The answer to that decides which set of details then needs working through. I still had my back to the door, and to her, but I could feel her shock. Good, I thought, I've had one; have one back. Now, what's it to be? I could tell from the tension in the air that she didn't think I was playing fair. She had a dozen explanations, all carefully worked out in those post-coital reveries when the adulterer asks themselves, what if I get caught? So I deprived her of her speeches and self-justifications and reduced her available responses to just yes or no. She said, yes. So we had dinner. And I opened a bottle of good Spanish cava because I felt as if I'd won something.
At this stage it is worth testing a piece each of the butternut squash and sweet potato to check they are cooked properly. There should be no resistance to the bite.
That night, whether because of the chilli or the situation, we certainly had sex. I wouldn't say we made love exactly – although, to be honest, I've never been too clear on the difference – but the sex definitely had more energy than it had had for a while. With the rear-view mirror of hindsight, signs, events and contributory factors are often much clearer: months of sexual drought, her new clothes, her increased happiness with life in general. Clichés are clichés for a reason: they're so often true.
