Chapter Seventeen
Christmas was quiet, more so than usual. Malik went away with his ‘friends’, but I was certain he was with a woman – one I was still waiting for him to tell me about.
I decided to spend Christmas with Dina. Lucy was away on holiday and so were the twins. Mohammed was working through most of the holidays so I went to Dina’s on Christmas Eve for a sleepover and the following day I helped her make an epic meal of Palestinian-style slow-roasted lamb shoulder on a bed of buttery cracked wheat, with stuffed aubergines and cabbage leaves on the side. We made a halal, Middle Eastern version of pigs in blankets as well – beef sausages and medjool dates marinated in honey and spices and wrapped with Turkey bacon, which Dina jokingly re-named ‘cows in dupattas’. This had us cracking up over how funny we thought we were, so much so that Dina was afraid that her waters were going to break four months early. When I say that I ‘helped’, really all I did was provide banter and childcare services while she did the bulk of the cooking.
We carried on talking throughout lunch and then, when Dina went to put Sami down for a nap, I cleared everything up and put the homemade kunafeh in the oven for dessert. I nearly burnt it of course, as I completely forgot about it while I was busy scrubbing the pans and baking trays. Luckily, Dina came down in time to save it. I watched as she poured rose syrup over the top of the shredded kataifi and inhaled the beautiful fragrance of sweet cheese, buttery pastry, nuts and rose water. No wonder Mohammed was obsessed with her. The girl had mad cooking skills.
‘You think that’s the secret to a happy marriage?’ Dina laughed as I told her my theory, while she brewed Arabic-style tea. ‘What’s for dinner is the last thing on his mind. He’s more interested in “dessert”, if you catch my drift.’
I didn’t immediately, but when the realisation hit, I burst into laughter. ‘Ew, shut up, it’s like picturing my parents together,’ I complained.
‘Speaking of marriage,’ Dina said as she carried an ornate silver tea tray over to the coffee table in the living room and I followed her with two massive portions of kunafeh with vanilla ice cream. ‘What’s happening with you? Have your parents made you meet anyone else?’
‘No,’ I replied, settling into her comfy sofa and putting my plate on my lap. ‘My mum thinks I have a secret boyfriend.’
‘Poor aunty,’ she said, taking a bite of the dessert. ‘I bet she wishes you had someone.’
‘I think she does,’ I admitted. ‘Oh my God, this kunafeh is amazing. It’s so much better than the restaurant ones.’
‘Thanks, habibti. Now, tell me more about Zakariya,’ Dina brushed off the compliment. ‘Is he a potential then? Your post-makeover encounter sounded romantic.’
‘Not really,’ I admitted. ‘He told me he’s not interested in getting married. He only agreed to meet me to placate his parents and he’s planning to move to Dubai next year. His parents were giving him a hard time about it, hence meeting me.’
‘Wow. I bet he’s unsure now that you’re in the picture.’
‘I’m not in the “picture”. It was one car ride and besides, I rejected him remember?’
‘Oh yeah. That complicates things a bit.’
‘A LOT, you mean.’
‘I wish it didn’t. He sounds like a good guy, this Zakariya.’
I contemplated Dina’s words. She had always been sensible and was a good judge of character. I was also known to be sensible, although admittedly my people radar was a little off. But was a car ride all it took to make Zakariya seem decent in her opinion? What about the way he behaved in the art class?
‘He probably wanted to start a conversation with you and said the first thing that came into his head,’ Dina replied when I reminded her of that fact. ‘It was a crap thing to say, but I don’t know if he should be charged and tried based on one dodgy remark. If he reaches out to you again, which he might not since you rejected him, you should get to know him properly and make a more informed decision about his character.’
‘Well, he’s moving to Dubai and I’m going back to uni, so we’re on different paths. It’s not meant to be.’
When I got back home early the next morning, the first thing I did after greeting my parents – who were so engrossed in the Bollywood movie they were watching that they barely acknowledged me – was check out the next item on Noah’s list:
10.COMPLETE THE WHOLE 30 PROGRAMME
Smashed it like I knew I would and feel amazing! Need to make this a yearly thing.
What in God’s name was the ‘Whole 30’ programme? It could be anything, from devil-worshipping to learning how to code. I was probably going to have to get creative with how I would adapt it to suit me.
I typed it into Google and immediately realised that it was a healthy-eating programme, which sounded a lot like a diet to me. Apparently, it wasn’t, as weight loss wasn’t the goal and people didn’t count calories or carbs like with other diets. If I did this – which was a huge IF at that point – I wouldn’t be able to eat dairy, wheat, grains, legumes or pulses, processed meats, sugar and some fruit. What sort of diet didn’t let you eat fruit?
‘It’s only for thirty days,’ Lucy voice-noted me when I sent her a text to complain. I could hear a lot of noise in the background and I immediately felt bad for disturbing her on holiday. ‘Think of it like a detox.’
‘Trust a bloody personal trainer to add some sort of crazy diet to his list,’ I moaned in my reply. ‘Why do I have to? Why can’t I tailor it to my needs?’
‘You need to tailor things that make no sense at all, like participating in a triathlon or doing a physio course. This does make sense. Everyone could benefit from an internal cleanse every now and then.’
I wasn’t sure how and when Lucy became the authority on the way I interpreted the list, but I let her because it was easier with her support.
‘Everyone .?.?. including you?’ I asked hopefully.
Lucy sighed audibly through the voice-note. ‘Fine. Including me. I’ve wanted to try this for a while anyway. No time like the New Year to try a diet.’
‘You know you can’t drink alcohol on this plan,’ I told her. ‘Too much sugar.’
The next message came a few minutes later, starting with another long sigh. ‘Two New Year’s resolutions in one then. Let’s start on January first. It’ll give us a few days to enjoy ourselves.’
‘And give you New Year’s Eve to go wild.’
‘Exactly.’
After I finished bothering Lucy, I decided to check what was next on the list. The Whole 30 was called that because you did it for thirty days, not because you had to eliminate thirty foods like I initially assumed. It didn’t make sense to stall the rest of the list for a whole month, especially if it was something I could do in tandem.
Taking the notebook out for the second time that day, I flicked through the pages that were getting more and more tired and worn from all my constant touching and analysing and checked out number eleven on the list:
11.TAKE ARABIC CLASSES
Marhaba, Habibi!! Getting there, but got a long way to go!
I stared at the words in surprise. I had assumed that Noah was Arab, but how could he be if he was planning on taking classes? Having said that, my parents made me take Bengali lessons when I was younger. Maybe Noah’s parents barely spoke Arabic at home and he wanted to brush up on it. Or maybe he was planning on moving abroad like Zakariya. My heart dipped a little bit at the thought. If Zakariya left the country, I would never see him again.
Unless we took the same class, I slowly realised. I could ask Zakariya. It would give me the perfect excuse to text him again, without looking like I was trying it on.
Unlike other items on the list, Noah didn’t provide options for where to take the classes. For all I knew, he was doing them online. In fact, he probably was. Everyone did things online these days. I didn’t want to though. I wouldn’t focus half as much as if I did it in person. Plus, doing it offline meant I could meet more people and get out more.
Nerves tingling in my belly, I took out my phone and painstakingly crafted the perfect text after two failed attempts:
ME: Salaams Zakariya, hope you’re well. Remember the list I told you about? Taking Arabic classes is on it. Any suggestions on where I can go to take them? TIA!
Hitting send, I leant back in my chair and waited. After checking my phone three times in one minute, I distracted myself by creating a meal plan and shopping list for my Whole 30 month, which was a lot harder than I originally thought it would be. I couldn’t eat cereal, granola or yoghurt for breakfast. I wouldn’t be able to buy something quickly whenever I needed to. I’d have to plan my meals properly otherwise I would fail. It looked like eggs were going to become my best friend.
It took me a while to create a meal plan that I would sort of enjoy – there were a lot of salads, soups, eggs and baked proteins on it, but I could live with it for a month. Potatoes were allowed, which meant that I could have jacket potatoes from the greasy spoon cafe next to my office if I needed to. Not with beans or cheese, though. Or butter. Tuna mayo it was going to have to be. If I could take up running, surely, I could cut back on some of my favourite food groups. No problem. Hang on, was mayonnaise dairy?
My phone buzzed and I grabbed it so quickly that I knocked over a stack of papers on my desk. But I didn’t care because Zakariya had replied:
ZAKARIYA: Salaams Maya, I’m well thanks, how are you? Here’s the link to the place I go. I go on Thursday nights, 6:30–8:00PM but I’m on level two now. Good luck!
I read the message again and then re-read another two times. It wasn’t the mind-blowing reply I was hoping for. It was friendly enough, but apart from ‘how are you?’, which was a cursory response to my enquiring after his wellbeing, there weren’t any questions; nothing to help me prolong the conversation. What could I reply to create an entire text chain? Nothing without appearing desperate.
Deflated, I replied with ‘thanks so much!’ and then put my phone away. He wasn’t going to respond to that, so there was no point in staring at it all day. I emailed the college where he took his lessons, enquiring about dates, times, costs and availability, and then headed downstairs in my running shoes, hoodie and leggings.
The old me spent Boxing Day going sales shopping, indulging in a roasted salmon lunch and then watching Christmas movies while stuffing my face with halal mince pies (the alcohol-free ones – Malik bought a whole box with brandy in them a couple of weeks before that I had to give away to Lucy). This year was different. Lucy told me not to waste money in the sales buying things I didn’t need or want because they were cheaper than usual, so I gave that a miss and went for a run instead. I was up to running three kilometres in one go now and thanks to all the stretches I did afterwards, I could nearly touch my toes. After my run, I showered and helped my mum cook for a change.
‘Who are you and what have you done with my daughter?’ Ma gasped in faux horror when I joined her in the kitchen, my sleeves rolled up, ready to be useful.
‘Haha,’ I replied. ‘What shall I do?’
‘Here, peel the potatoes.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Everyone has to start somewhere. Unless you want to de-scale the fish?’
‘Potatoes are fine!’ I said, hastily grabbing the peeler and getting down to it.
We worked in comfortable silence for a while, before Ma put a Christmas playlist on her phone and we sang along to all the classics together. Every so often she would show me what she was doing: de-scaling and filleting the fish, crushing garlic and squeezing lemons to make a fusion marinade with olive oil, dill, paprika, chilli flakes and coriander. The way Ma cooks is methodical but creative. She likes everything to be tidy and clean, but at the same time, she doesn’t weigh or measure. Her ability to create great flavours is innate.
‘Why the sudden interest in cooking?’ she asked once the food was in the oven and I began clearing up the bits of peel that hadn’t found their way to the food recycling bin yet.
I shrugged. ‘I’m working on myself a lot. I guess it feels right to learn how to fend for myself as well.’
‘Hmm,’ she said non-committally. ‘It’s not because we’re looking for a husband for you then? Or perhaps there’s already a man in your life?’
‘No way!’ I spluttered. ‘I have no desire to be the perfect, traditional wife, thank you very much. I’m learning how to cook for me , not for some man I don’t know. And whoever I marry can pitch in with all the housework, thank you. It’s not my job to be a cook and cleaner because I’m a woman. Islam says so.’
‘All right, all right,’ Ma laughed. ‘Calm down, it was just a question!’
‘Don’t you get annoyed that Baba hardly does anything round here?’ I said as I brushed the floor. ‘You work full-time and you do everything around the house. It hardly seems fair to me.’
‘Says the girl who also lives here and also hardly does anything round the house.’
‘Ouch! That’s not true! I might not cook but I do most of the cleaning.’
‘Well, it would have been a great help if you did. It would ease my load considerably.’
‘You know I’m a rubbish cook. Do you want me to waste perfectly good ingredients just so you can support traditional gender roles? I don’t see you asking Malik to cook.’
‘Touché,’ Ma laughed. ‘Useless, the pair of you.’
‘Well, this useless person soon won’t be eating much anyway. On New Year’s Day, I’m going to start a programme called the Whole 30.’
‘But you’re not thirty yet.’
‘No, it’s thirty because you do it for thirty days.’
‘Why? You don’t need to lose weight and you’re doing all that running. You need to eat well or you’ll waste away.’
‘It’s like a detox, Ma. It’s something I want to try. So don’t include me in any meals for January, I’m going to make my own food.’
‘You’re going to make it yourself?’
‘I am. So maybe after the month is up, I will be able to help you more with the cooking.’
‘That’s my girl,’ Ma smiled, giving my shoulders a squeeze.
‘.?.?. If you get Malik to do it too,’ I added and dashed out of the kitchen before she could say anything else.