Pesto

Lemon tarts. Valencia orange tarts. Oregano bread. Cinnamon rolls. Apple crostata. Pear crostata. Aglio olio spaghetti. Pesto spaghetti. Chicken curry. Fish head curry. Fried rice. Tom yam. Beef soup. Lemon tart again, but a little less tangy. Orange tart. Baking and cooking are my current obsession. I think I will be a good husband with these self-taught skills.

You don’t want to invite me to any football match. I don’t know jack about football. But I’ll invite you to my place, where you—yes, yes, yes, please—chop the cilantro for me while I sauté the shallots, garlic, and mushrooms. Pass me the salt, please. Thank you. We’ll wait for the spaghetti to cook al dente (I don’t really know what that means, anyway). I will pretentiously plate the pesto spaghetti on a big round white plate, like Jamie Oliver does.

We’ll sit facing each other at a small table with dried flower stalks arranged in an empty glass jar in the middle. We’ll see each other’s faces showered with incandescent light that colours everything warm. Behind us, the television will blare whatever happens to be on, so that we feel an extra presence in the room.

We’ll talk about almost everything in particular—except football. We’ll dive deep into our nation’s politics and their clowns. We’ll exchange stale jokes. We’ll wash the dishes together, then close the night with a cup of my watered-down version of affogato and a slice of lemon tart. Bitter and sweet, just like our future will be.