In the early morning light it became obvious that the dishes were unclean A veil of shame attached itself to me, it felt like a dereliction of domestic duty that the glasses had the shapes of lips pressed into them The plates trembled as I walked into the room, the dull clamour of ceramics clinging to each other They were stacked unsteadily and you could see who hadn't finished dinner, who had left stray capers to roll around with the breadcrumbs and the long, lonely loop of bucatini
But the plates were mostly scraped clean, there was hardly anything leftover at the end of the evening, I remembered And wasn't it a lovely dinner, when I really thought about it, everyone was in fine and bright spirits, eyes flashed at each other and glistened in the candlelight (The candles, burned down into small and tender ends, the wicks smoky and curled downwards, I would have to buy more candles for tonight) Wasn't it lovely, I thought as I lifted up the first plate to the faucet, the water welling up inside, I applied soap and sponge to the plate with a vigorous and industrious energy Yes, it was lovely, it was a lovely evening and there was nothing to be ashamed of
I'd been terribly nervous to have everyone over, I'd extended the invitations with great timidity and a tremulous fearful cautiousness But everyone had come Everyone had said they were coming by the early afternoon I had received the texts, one after another, with some relief I had bought the onion and tomatoes clinging onto the vine and the durum wheat pasta And the aubergine, which came first I pierced the skin with a fork, little punctures all over the skin, I smoked it over the stove The skin was smooth and taut and then charred and crinkled up like a fine and delicate paper While the aubergines cooled I grilled the onion and tomatoes and they became soft and sweet, edged in brown and swathed in oil The flesh of the aubergines was too hot to touch I pulled the blackened skin away and the stems too Tomato passata and paprika and garlic and generous lashings of olive oil, until fragrant the recipe said, until dark red the recipe said, it was roiling gently on the stovetop and a deep burgundy before I pulled it off I rested and felt the sheen of sweat on my forehead Into the food processor, everything smooth and creamy The pasta sauce was done I slid my spoon in Tasted it and subjected it to my gaze Thick and rich and florid with flavour
But I was working slowly The darkness was crawling over landscape outside the window I switched the lights on Now the kitchen was blazing with light, the stovetop was still warm Tahini from the pantry and a lemon sliced in half and juiced to a husk and salt and water Whisked until smooth while the kettle began to tremble and hiss A fine and dense layer of salt at the bottom of the pot before the roiling water surged around The raw bucatini in the pot Little gem lettuce washed and dressed with my bare hands, glistening with oil, slicks of champagne vinegar sliding off the green, shallots Pasta shepherded from the water and aubergine sauce pooled around and salad heaped up in a bowl Everything glistening Knocking at the door Cold air sweeping in And all the furtive despair and loneliness escaping the room