Il It’s so hot tonight in Port-au-Prince. I move the curtain of my window, a bright moon illuminates my room. This is the first time that the moon seems so bright to me. The heat suffocates me. My two small windows open their arms wide to cool me.
No wind tonight. Not even a breath. However, through the window overlooking the city, I can see the sea. A calm and sad sea. The city is a bit quiet tonight. I can hear the loudspeakers of my neighbors quietly listening to a few tracks from the phenomenal album « Las » of Zafem. In the Port-au-Prince of the gang leaders, these songs seem to announce something positive. This music gives us a bit of hope. It reminds us that we are alive.
Eating is an art, cooking too
I’m hungry but I no longer have any appetite for the spaghetti that’s on my stove. It’s rare that I cook such disgusting spaghetti. I put hot dog, pickled herring, butter and spices though. I almost regurgitated the first bite but since there were no other options I ate it anyway. Eating is an art, one of my favorite arts. I’ve been trying to be a good cook for years but it often doesn’t work out. I lack patience. Sometimes it’s not “spicy” enough, as one would say without soul, sometimes it’s seasoned, too strong. One day the dish is too spicy, another day it is too bland. To tell the truth, dear readers, dear readers, sometimes I pass for a chef. Sometimes I’m arrogant for a sucker. Especially when I made a big blow.
Last month I cooked a delicious dish for my friends Wood Kendy and Julie. It was bean rice with okra and cod. I added turmeric. They congratulated me. When I am congratulated for a good dish, I always have the impression that I will be a writer (laughs). A good Haitian writer must know how to cook. Look at my friend who wrote “Les brasseurs de la ville”, he cooks well and loves it. He can leave his novel in progress to prepare a steaming dish for his writer friends. It is Dany Laferriere who said that we talk a lot about food in Haitian novels. It goes all the way to the Constitution of the Republic.
“Last month I cooked a delicious dish for my friends Wood Kendy and Julie. They congratulated me. When I am congratulated on a good dish, I always have the impression that I will be a writer. »
“The boys who hang around between the stoves end up masisi”
It’s not my fault that I can’t cook. Alas. This goes back to my childhood in Gonaïves, capital of the Artibonite department. Marise, my older cousin forbade me to enter the kitchen. ” Boys should not enter the kitchen. You’ll be a stingy boy with women“, she told me. For her, the boys who hang around between the stoves and the dishes end up masisi (homosexuals). The kitchen is the realm of girls. Boys can take care of other household chores like fetching water, cleaning latrines, etc. Many young people who grew up in the provinces are in the same situation as me. Ah! Our dear traditional families. The worst thing about me is that my mother has three sons. None of us can cook. I am a beginner, much more interesting than my two brothers, Nicolson and Roldy.
I really like cooking. It is an art that fascinates me. It is Christian Bobin who said eating is a party. I love to eat. I like to eat all the time. When I am sad. When I’m happy. When there is, deep in my heart, a heartache. When I’m sick, I eat a lot more than usual. Whatever the disease.
Drama in Port-au-Prince
I can’t wait to learn how to cook. For several reasons. First, Haitian women much prefer men who can cook. It fascinates them. Cooking is a weapon of seduction in Port-au-Prince (laughs). Lived experience. I met D in a restaurant in Delmas 54. D is a beautiful woman from Haiti. She is studying law. Very shiny. I have a serious weakness for women who read. Two weeks later, I send her poems, cards, and books. D is very elegant. She gave me a flower to thank me. At 26, it was the first time a woman had given me a flower. I was seduced. D took my head. A Friday in September. She said : ” My ex-boyfriend knew how to cook for me. He spoiled me. I still dream of his dishes. You must know how to cook too, I hope« .
A few weeks later, I’m cooking for D at home. I don’t want to mention the dish, sorry. Drama in Port-au-Prince. D didn’t like it. She barely tasted. Reluctanlty. It was too salty. It would seem. I never saw D again. I feel like D went back into her boyfriend’s life. I want to know how to cook to break my family’s norm. I am from the generation of equality. Believe me, I’m not drunk on beer: there is no man who knows how to cook in my family. From the smallest to the biggest. And it’s a real inferiority complex.
“I want to know how to cook to break my family’s norm. I am from the generation of equality. »
So that in Gonaives, cooking is also a male art
But when luck smiles on me, I brag. It’s like writing a good novel, a beautiful poem. I want to let my friends and fellow journalists taste the dish and take them to witness. ” See how tender that chicken leg is? How is this rice cooked to perfection? And the sauce, isn’t it delicious, say? I prepared it. I am a great little cook« .
Whoops ! I write too much here. When I write too much, I quickly go hungry. Writing is a sport, it was my mother who taught me that. I still have to take a few bites of my spaghetti tonight. But it is repulsive. I’m ashamed of being useless in the kitchen. We need advocacy so that, in Gonaives, my childhood town, little boys have access to the kitchen.
The moonlight is still there in my room. The heat too. The wind comes to me timidly now. With fits and starts. I’m going to listen to a piece of Lightning (Pito n pa t zanmi). I’m going to eat the rest of my spaghetti anyway. Life is expensive in Port-au-Prince. We must not waste what the Good Lord puts in our mouths, we must resign ourselves to eating. Nevertheless.