Day off yesterday; slept in til 11:30 and then hung out with a buddy and smoked nargilah and drank dark coffee. It came upon us that rather than going out for dinner with girlfriend and her guests as planned and blowing a bunch of cash on some shit that some faceless hairy men in dank back rooms had cooked, that we should cook up a fat meal ourselves, because why not? And because we actually like to cook. Said friend is a cook by profession and I am a cook by fantasy and inclination, if not always by deed. Having recently attended some classes on Indian cookery, I at first thought to conjure an Indian feast, replete with samosas, bread, and curries. However, it seemed a bit daunting and we were unsure as to where to start. So we threw out that idea. But we knew that we wanted something spicy, because spice is necessary and good. Corn seemed to be a necessary component to this spice factor that spring afternoon, which immediately pointed us in the direction of southwestern cookery. So we hopped on our bikes and made the rounds to the local free-range meat market for chicken and a bottle of port, thence onward to the local organic store for fresh vegetables and 100% cacao dark chocolate, then finishing up at the supermarket for residual items such as habaneros, mango, and pineapple.
The meal became evident as items were acquired. A sweat inducing pineapple-mango-habanero salsa with brown rice and black beans. Chicken cooked in a marinade of apple cider vinegar, chili powder, cinnamon, cumin, habanero, thyme, rosemary. Red chile tortillas. Ripe avocados. Red wine. Pineapple and mango slices as the womanfolk waited to be served. Conscious r&b, reggae, and hip-hop blazing on the Bose stereo. Small kitchen space and multiple pots and pans simmering and spitting.
The meal was delicious and right on time, just as tummies were grumbling. The red wine was polished off, the dark chocolate passed around, the port sipped and pineapple slices finished. Satisfied, full, and righteous. This is the way that meals are meant to be made. For many people to share, sitting around with some music and some fermented grapes.
I realized just how important such an act is. To be a community, sharing something so simple and revolutionary as food. As communal good times. Feeling good. Riding high off spices and dark chocolate. We could conquer the world. So we collected ourselves and went off to party, drinking too much gin and tonics and dancing because it felt good. Because to shake of the booty is to express and partake of joy and divinity and indefinable beauty. Good times.