Day 22 – FOOD
Mama’s way of producing edibles from flour is a prime of any culinary artistry. It has to be the death of me.
Mama’s delicacy ranges from samosa rolls, puffs, buns, cakes, and bread. I grew up expecting her kind of special treats on the mornings of every weekend. From the time I would play video games or preoccupy myself with chores pending the time breakfast was ready, to these days where I have a new pre-breakfast hobby.
Hannah and her family moved into the neighborhood when I was about 14, even with my fragile linkage with puberty at the time, Hannah’s looks subconsciously drew an ounce of attraction. Her hips were provocative in a way that made me fantasize about her whirling them around my pelvic protrusion.
Hannah loved her hula hoops and always twirled around it every weekend, it was like her workout. The window of my room gave a perfect sight-seeing trajectory, straight to a portion of the backyard where she would always be. I was still steamy when it came to those hips and every time she practiced her hula hopping, it created turbulence in them; a kind of turbulence that extended to the entirety of her laps.
Nothing would take this view from me. I watched Hannah till she was done and it was mostly at the expense of having my breakfast at the right time. Most times, my brothers clear my dish for me as I would be forced to forfeit my meal because of the way I hated the taste of crispy flour meals.
Mama then came up with this recipe: squared pancake merged with vanilla pudding. It gave up an aurora of a jaw melting scent whenever it was in the oven. Whenever it was in my mouth, it gave this crunchy taste and every delicate bite allowed the fluffy surface to secrete those pulsating vanilla juice right unto the linings my taste buds. I never risked her new recipe for anything. Even Hannah’s hips. For the first time in a long time I finally restructured my priority. Food before women. Always.