I made cake and stew this past weekend and the reasons why are threefold:
- I have been in denial about the onset of winter and I finally reached the final stage of seasonal woe: acceptance.
- My mother is forever telling me that as the daughter of a Cake Genius, I need to experiment more.
- I wanted banana caramel layer cake and two different kinds of stew (separately of course.)
If you were here, I’d tell you about how when I visited home on my birthday, me and Papa T found photos of you posing in red jeans before red jeans became a thing. And I’d tell you how I touched the place on my cheek you’d kissed on the last birthday I had when you were around.
When a boy brings you a brand new headwrap and quotes lines from The Fault in Our Stars (aka one of the greatest books that ever existed), you are probably supposed to fall in love with him.
This is how it goes.
In the pocket of a pair of jeans last worn when the sun was working overtime instead of kicking it under a duvet of cloud and drizzle, you find a receipt for a Belgian waffle and the memory of the way he drenched his in chocolate and licked the remnants from his fingers clubs you over the head. And just like that, you’re spiralling; dumping the jeans on the floor and walking out of the room like it’s on fire.
I started writing this the day before our birthday but got swept up in celebratory shenanigans and so didn’t get around to finishing this until last night.
21 years ago, you beckoned me into your lap from my place in the darkened doorway of the living room of our first house on the Isle. I can’t remember the specifics of what had jarred me from sleep and propelled me downstairs in search of you – a bad dream or perhaps a tummy ache – but it doesn’t really matter. You wrapped wool-clad arms around me and rocked me until I fell asleep; whispering into my hair all the while.
Stereo. 20-something aspiring bon vivant. London based. Exceptionally Nigerian. Partial to snark. My default setting is "wry". Jeans and blazers are my uniform. Landlady. Speed reader, tuneless singer, hoarder of words, drinker of Schloer; I am suspicious of most people, have zero tolerance for tomfoolery, have a vast DVD collection, worship at the altar of Al Green, own too many bottles of nail polish, have small eyes, small ears and giant hair and owe approximately 86% of my awesome to the Parents Typewriter.
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