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Couscous: A father-daughter story about cooking and love

Sometimes, we lie because we love.

I'm nine, or maybe ten. My father is dozing on the balcony, behind the large hibiscus plant.

Papa sleeps better during the day because he’s haunted. Night haunted. And when the spooky things come—memories of his childhood, he haunts my mother. He tells her his nightmares, wakes her up—to pull her into his suffering, to taunt her into saving him.

I know because I’ve heard him.

Papa wakes up. “Ready for some couscous?” he asks.

I nod, and while Papa takes out pots and pans, I stand by the kerosene stove, watching Mother wash down the refrigerator (it’s leaking because of the power cut).

I lean down as Papa minces garlic and wish I could tell him how his couscous smells yummy but tastes like wet toilet paper. He makes us what he calls “gourmet dinner” at least once a week, and I always keep up a constant stream of oohs and ahs and compliments, which sound so exaggerated to Papa sometimes that he raises an eyebrow and suspects me of mockery.

Sometimes, we lie because we love.

I sit and watch him, as he bends over and listens to the food in the skillet. He pinches salt between his fingers and dashes it in. He pays attention, deeply, to the textures and colors and smells, and a little smile forms upon his lips.

“Here, try this,” he says, lifting a spoon of couscous.

I try not to cringe at the funny taste. We have music on in the background, and the sun is shining through the skylights. Papa is annoyed with Mother, who keeps checking to make sure the stove isn’t leaking gas and telling him he forgot to talk to the landlord about putting some more locks on the doors. Then she’s doing the dishes behind us, in a futile attempt to keep the kitchen clean.

As Papa plates up our food, his face widens with excitement, because he thinks I’m going to love this food he has made with his hands. I slam my fork into the couscous and it is half-cooked.

I say, “Oh man, this is good.”

That is the highest praise I could ever give him. My father ruins the couscous recipe every time he attempts, and the kitchen now has a greasy smell.

“This is good,” I say again.

Sometimes, we lie because we love.

And he believes me. He says his couscous has a twist of culinary adventure—soft, rich, and memorable. He goes into his bedroom for a nap, and Mother grants me permission to throw away my meal. The radio hisses and bursts into snatches of chatters in Creole. Mother makes sandwiches. My sister Patricia and I pick the vegetables off and eat quickly, eyeing each other competitively, mouths bulging.


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