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- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Family & Friends
- Subject: Memory / Reminiscence
- Published: 12/18/2014
LECSO
Born 1947, F, from Wolverhampton, United KingdomLECSO
K.K.Bodis
We were sitting at the big kitchen table. All the doors to the balcony were open. It was the height of summer, hot and dry in my favourite month: July. Tomatoes, peppers and onions were waiting patiently in the basket to be part of a symbolic dish. Making lecso (letch-oh) is almost compulsory in summer in my country. The vegetables are truly sun kissed; booming with colour and flavour.
The neighbours were chatting and arguing about the day’s dinner. Some were making stuffed peppers with tomato sauce, some lecso; others didn’t keep the rule of summer and they were making anything they could think of.
Dad was standing at the stove, taking a small spoonful of the thick mixture from time to time. ‘Peppers must be completely mushy,’ he was stirring and tasting with the expression of an artist who had just finished a painting close to his heart. He wasn’t wearing shirt and shoes; just a pair of shorts. He was tanned and proud. Although he performed life saving operations every day, lecso was something he would not joke about. It had to be perfect. Before Mum got ill, she would make it. When she became too weak to cook, Dad took over commanding the kitchen and he produced delicious meals. He always teased her, saying he was a better cook than she was and they had a lovely argument about it.
‘The secret is time,’ he boasted. ‘You have to give it enough time.’ She would sneer and turn away. It tortured her to give up her territory. She liked to complain about being a kitchen slave; in reality, she was a perfectionist and she created masterpieces.
‘It would have been better to eat something cold,’ Mum complained while fanning herself with a letter. He was hurt but he went on stirring. The bread, a large white loaf, was already sliced, glasses and napkins put on the table. He had bought the wine from a local winemaker. I didn’t like wine and I didn’t like lecso; it was too heavy for me. Still, I ate too much every time he made it. He wanted us to feel stuffed – then he felt reassured it was good. People had different recipes and they all swore by them: lecso with eggs or sausages and no rice or there must be rice and you add garlic or not. His version had rice and sausages. They both said only renegades put eggs in lecso – he wouldn’t hear of such sacrilege.
The evening slowly settled and flavours of different dinners were brought by the wind. Neighbours sat at their kitchen tables enjoying the breezy summer evening just like we did. Dad would shout over to one of them asking what they were making and they would exchange ideas about market prices and vendors. When we sat down to eat, he was exhausted. A large, red bellied watermelon was cooling in the fridge. Later he would cut it in half and tell us to listen to the special harsh sound the knife was making, which meant the melon was ripe and it would be honey sweet. He poured wine to all of us and I knew he was hurting badly. Not because of the lecso. He could not accept that the woman he had shared his life with for 50 years, was slowly losing her strength. The joie de vivre was gone and it was replaced by frailty and a narrowing world. He pretended not to notice anything. His solution for coping was denial.
I would have liked to talk to him about what was coming; no one knew when. He refused all my attempts and he would make facetious jokes. I was frustrated and angry. After some time, I just gave up and I couldn’t imagine how he would be able to cope with the loss once she would be gone. The lingering scent of the vegetables filled the kitchen. That evening I ate too much again, nervously and hopelessly. I knew how I would feel afterwards but at least I would forget, even if temporarily, that we were all rushing towards something we would have liked to avoid.
I have just cooked lecso. In another kitchen, in another country. Mum and Dad are no longer around. I would have liked to ask them about the right proportion of peppers and tomatoes. How long should it simmer? At which point should I add the rice? I had to rely on memory and intuition. I didn’t put in as much oil as they both did – we are more health conscious now. Maybe that’s why, maybe because I am looking for a taste that never even existed, my lecso will never be similar to the one I am remembering. While I was trying to create the same mushy substance they did, the balcony noises with jokes and scents surprised me with sudden intensity. Evenings of joy, worry and frustration; evenings of dinners never to come back.
First published in the online magazine, Page and Spine in June 2014.
LECSO(K.K. Bodis)
LECSO
K.K.Bodis
We were sitting at the big kitchen table. All the doors to the balcony were open. It was the height of summer, hot and dry in my favourite month: July. Tomatoes, peppers and onions were waiting patiently in the basket to be part of a symbolic dish. Making lecso (letch-oh) is almost compulsory in summer in my country. The vegetables are truly sun kissed; booming with colour and flavour.
The neighbours were chatting and arguing about the day’s dinner. Some were making stuffed peppers with tomato sauce, some lecso; others didn’t keep the rule of summer and they were making anything they could think of.
Dad was standing at the stove, taking a small spoonful of the thick mixture from time to time. ‘Peppers must be completely mushy,’ he was stirring and tasting with the expression of an artist who had just finished a painting close to his heart. He wasn’t wearing shirt and shoes; just a pair of shorts. He was tanned and proud. Although he performed life saving operations every day, lecso was something he would not joke about. It had to be perfect. Before Mum got ill, she would make it. When she became too weak to cook, Dad took over commanding the kitchen and he produced delicious meals. He always teased her, saying he was a better cook than she was and they had a lovely argument about it.
‘The secret is time,’ he boasted. ‘You have to give it enough time.’ She would sneer and turn away. It tortured her to give up her territory. She liked to complain about being a kitchen slave; in reality, she was a perfectionist and she created masterpieces.
‘It would have been better to eat something cold,’ Mum complained while fanning herself with a letter. He was hurt but he went on stirring. The bread, a large white loaf, was already sliced, glasses and napkins put on the table. He had bought the wine from a local winemaker. I didn’t like wine and I didn’t like lecso; it was too heavy for me. Still, I ate too much every time he made it. He wanted us to feel stuffed – then he felt reassured it was good. People had different recipes and they all swore by them: lecso with eggs or sausages and no rice or there must be rice and you add garlic or not. His version had rice and sausages. They both said only renegades put eggs in lecso – he wouldn’t hear of such sacrilege.
The evening slowly settled and flavours of different dinners were brought by the wind. Neighbours sat at their kitchen tables enjoying the breezy summer evening just like we did. Dad would shout over to one of them asking what they were making and they would exchange ideas about market prices and vendors. When we sat down to eat, he was exhausted. A large, red bellied watermelon was cooling in the fridge. Later he would cut it in half and tell us to listen to the special harsh sound the knife was making, which meant the melon was ripe and it would be honey sweet. He poured wine to all of us and I knew he was hurting badly. Not because of the lecso. He could not accept that the woman he had shared his life with for 50 years, was slowly losing her strength. The joie de vivre was gone and it was replaced by frailty and a narrowing world. He pretended not to notice anything. His solution for coping was denial.
I would have liked to talk to him about what was coming; no one knew when. He refused all my attempts and he would make facetious jokes. I was frustrated and angry. After some time, I just gave up and I couldn’t imagine how he would be able to cope with the loss once she would be gone. The lingering scent of the vegetables filled the kitchen. That evening I ate too much again, nervously and hopelessly. I knew how I would feel afterwards but at least I would forget, even if temporarily, that we were all rushing towards something we would have liked to avoid.
I have just cooked lecso. In another kitchen, in another country. Mum and Dad are no longer around. I would have liked to ask them about the right proportion of peppers and tomatoes. How long should it simmer? At which point should I add the rice? I had to rely on memory and intuition. I didn’t put in as much oil as they both did – we are more health conscious now. Maybe that’s why, maybe because I am looking for a taste that never even existed, my lecso will never be similar to the one I am remembering. While I was trying to create the same mushy substance they did, the balcony noises with jokes and scents surprised me with sudden intensity. Evenings of joy, worry and frustration; evenings of dinners never to come back.
First published in the online magazine, Page and Spine in June 2014.
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