Throwback Thursday

 

Bad grammar aside, my friend tagged me in this post on instagram and I haven't been able to get it out of my head. I've gone back to it, laughing, shaking my head, and, wondering if the meme creator literally reached into my life and pulled out my flashback. Or is this a more common phenomenon than we've previously realised? (Warning: Hot Guy at Church! aka a thirty-something-year-old-Single-Nigerian-woman's-Godfearing-dream-come-true.)

Here's what happened. It was my final year of university and I was between crushes. The cute guy I liked was too young for me, and the older guy that liked me was too... old. Valentine's  day had just gone past and I was probably feeling a little neglected, but I don't remember.
I was making my leisurely way to the hostels after class one afternoon when this babe stopped me and was all, hi, do you know a guy called SexyVoiceGuy? I didn't. I mean, I thought I did, but you never know; that's how she would have heard I did something I didn't do. Or something. Anyway.
She gave me something closely resembling the stink-eye, and proceeded to say, "Well, he said I should give you his number." Was this a trap?

I took it. I guess because she seemed so irritated to have been sent by a potentially attractive potential, to, essentially, toast another babe on his behalf. To make matters worse, I was probably returning the stink-eye in intensified measure - if only to prove I really wasn't interested.
But I took the number, anyway. And she walked off in a huff.
I sent him a text; something like, "You sent your number, so, hi," and he called. And that was when he was christened, Sexy Voice Guy.

Sexy Voice Guy and I talked for hours. I was giddy when my phone rang, and giddy when it didn't, because I knew it was going to. He was cool, suave, a working man. Older - but not as much older as the other older guy. He reminded me that we had indeed met, but he'd just not taken my number. He'd also deliberately waited until after valentine's day to contact me, but I could live with that. I didn't need string-attached chocolates in my life, anyway.

When he finally asked me on a proper date, (lunch and a movie and a surprise) I counted the very breaths until it came. I wish I remembered what I wore; I feel certain that whatever it was would have been casual-yet-sexy, because I would have tried very hard (with the help of my many room mates) to not look like I'd tried very hard. I want to believe I did not show boob, but I might have; more than that I hope I didn't both show boob and wear heels.

He came to get me in this car that didn't have air conditioning, but I didn't mind. It was before the era of compulsory air conditioning, and it was enough that he had access to a car. He drove me to the cinema and we walked into Barcelos to have lunch. Most uni going lads would have had to have saved up a bit to be able to order something other than water, but my date splurged. Also, his voice was just as sexy in person.

Okay, so he was also attractive. I mean, my ex boyfriend had been much hotter, and the too-young cutie was actually delectable but this guy, he was alright, too.
Funny thing happened as we had lunch. Right in the middle of giving each other coy-but-longing faces, some guy he knew popped out of nowhere, said, "Hi! Are you on a date!" and proceeded to sit with us. And then, after the movie, he found us, latched on for a ride and - wait for it - sat in the front seat. In my front seat. That was it. Date over. I was all sorts of pissed.

Then he said, over his friend's nosey head, "Remember when I told you I had a surprise?"
     "Yes?"
     "Do you still want to do it?"
Did I. I was trying to front, but his friend was flirt-blocking, so my fronting would have been pointless and I said yes.



Days before our date he'd called me, all sexy. (If you think I'm using that word excessively, I'm not. Just... take my word for it.)
     Before our date he'd said, "There's something really special I do on Tuesdays. Do you wanna know what it is?"
     Hei.
     There's nothing hotter - to a twenty year-old hot-cake of a babe - than an older hot-cake of a guy teasing her with something she has to say she doesn't want even though she does. My mind went everywhere my mom would be disappointed to know her daughter's mind could go and back again. But why only on Tuesdays? didn't bother me too much. Maybe he likes to switch things up on the other days of the week. (Remember, I'm twenty.)
     He said, "Better yet, would you like to do it with me?"
Sweet Lord in heaven. But I couldn't say yes - in case I really, really did not want to partake of this crazy man's fetish ritual killing of stray animals due to extensive drug abuse.
I dodged with something like, "Well I guess we'll have to see, won't we," and that was that, but now it was Tuesday and this random other guy had popped up out of nowehere. (As far as I know, right?) Our date was ruined and this his surprise of a thing was just looking long. I was frustrated, irritable, the party crasher was singing along to the radio and listening in on this would-have-been sexy moment and I just said, "Fine."

A few minutes later, Sexy Voice Guy pulled into a church compound. His friend jumped out of the car right quick, so I thought, Great! Finally he's gone, and we can resume our date. Then Sexy Voice Guy got down, too.
     "Remember that special thing I told you about?"
     "Yes?"
     "This is it."

What in the World.

Lately, cooking seems to inspire me, more than anything else in my life, to be more inspired about everything else in my life. While cooking, I don’t necessarily feel like cooking more, but I always walk away with an additional nugget of wisdom; an analogy, a story, a lightbulb moment of understanding that, in today's case, makes me want to run to my mommy and say sorry.

I heard it was World Pancake Day today. 

I’ve recently become that person on your instagram feed whose meals are a matter of national importance. I can not so much as fry an egg without running to the ‘gramz for validation. Fortunately, I don’t fry eggs much. Unfortunately, the only thing I seem to cook with any (subject, untested, unverified) skill is: pancakes.

One of my brothers sat in the kitchen with me a few weeks ago, marveling at my delight in being the one handling the pots, pans and flour. He said, “How many times have I seen you in the kitchen in the last three years?!” And look at me now, wielding batter with relative ease. Even I didn’t recognize myself.

So when I heard it was World Pancake Day today – a fact I never bothered to verify for myself – I allowed myself to be cajoled into agreeing to making pancakes. Ha. My brother knew there was barely any persuasion on his part; rather, an excuse offered up to me like a fragrant offering of which I took more than a sniff.

I barked out purchase orders – which, though unfulfilled, only fueled in me a desire to compromise, create and dazzle. My pancakes were only a medium; I was the real star.

I mixed ‘secret’ and not-so-secret ingredients in random measure, trusting my muscle memory to remind itself how much each item weighed. I doubled my batter – nay, tripled it. I whisked and turned and improvised and when the first pancake was done a little caterpillar tested out new wings in my belly.

 

(Not today's pancakes)

I must have made about fifteen pancakes. I ladled batter in and watched the bubbles pop through. I waited about two minutes for each side to set perfectly. I’m not much of a mathematician but that would make about thirty minutes for each side, for fifteen (at least) pancakes.
I was on my feet for an incrementally frustrating hour and a half.

The first time I ever cooked for anyone, it had been my idea. Well, technically they’d asked. Boys, of course. Family, even – it was my cousin. 

“I can make yam?” I overreached. He said okay, and showed up with my boyfriend. What a lovely surprise.

So I forgot to measure out the right amount of water. I did not have enough palm oil, so I had to substitute with stew. The stew already had water... and so my asaro turned into a watery mess.

Whilst it was a-boilin’ (right along with my nerves) my cousin announced that he didn’t eat yam. Like, normally. He’d only said okay for me, he said. Since I’d offered, he said. And the next day, my boyfriend told me he’d had a running stomach after dinner.

  

I never cooked for anyone again.

 Kidding – I did. But I was never confident, never happy, certainly never eager to do so. 

Until World Pancake Day. 

I never thought I’d see the day when I’d hate pancakes. Every second that passed was a reminder of how arrogant I’d been. Or, had I been arrogant? I’d merely wanted to help. I mean, he called to tell me he was hungry! But, no, did he say hungry? He said “pancakes”, that’s all I remember. Is it even World Pancake Day?

Oh no, that pancake came out all wonky. Does he like chocolate in his pancakes? What if he doesn’t even eat them because he doesn’t like chocolate in his pancakes? He’d better eat them, after making me make them. Did he make me make them? Not everyone likes oat pancakes. How did I end up making oat pancakes for someone who wanted regular pancakes? And I’ve been here for an hour cooking and he might not like them! Why didn’t I make a smaller batch? But what if he does like them and the other brothers want some and there’s not enough to go around? And what if they hate them.

I went through every single emotion from the yam day all over again, even angrier at myself because I was only cooking for my brothers this time. It should not have been a big deal. It should also not have taken an hour and a half. I should also have figured it would take that long and planned accordingly. Why didn't I plan? Why don't I ever plan?? 

Etc.

The erring brother came in when they were mostly done, eyed them skeptically, picked two out and squinted as he chewed. I almost threw the pan in his face.

He ate the two, asked for syrup, and walked out of the kitchen – not before I had scrambled to salvage my bleeding pride: “If I’d used flour it would have had a different consistency.” He hadn’t asked. “Next time, better don’t ask me to make pancakes for you.” He chewed. “They’re chocolate pancakes.” That was evident. “There’s syrup in the cupboard!” He swallowed and offered, “They’re not bad. They’re nice.”

After he left, my other brother stayed. He ate the remaining pancakes his brother had left behind. “Do you want more?” I asked. He finished his mouthful and shook his head. No.

And then, I remembered my mother on Saturday mornings, making pancakes for her five ravenous growing children. I remembered how she never made more than two for each of us, and how I always thought she was mean.

I remembered how we stalked moodily in and out of the kitchen, banging the door shut to announce our displeasure at how long breakfast was taking.

I remembered how we never said thank you, we never said it tasted nice, we never said anything except, “Can we have more?” (No.)

And I thought how, a little company while she was slaving away for five children, a husband (and herself) would have made her feel so much less like an inadequate slave.

Neither brother said thank you tonight, and I know that if they had I would have snapped, anyway. My back hurt(s) from standing so long, and what’s more, I couldn’t even enjoy my (yummy) chocolate pancakes.

It’ll be a while before I offer anyone anything again.