Here, tomatoes are my favorite fruit, eaten with every meal. I sigh after the avocado trees, whose fruit-laden branches I left before they were ready. The markets don’t sell sugarcane. At least, not the ones I frequent.
I miss the pleasure of spitting out sugar-infused fiber.
Fruits change, and already I yearn for the ten different kinds of banana we have in Kenya.
I return to a different palate: basil, olive oil, sesame oil, black and silver salts, fresh mozzarella, pomegranate juice, sundried tomatoes.
It is not that these are absent from Kenya. They are simply more present here.
(T)here: chapati smothered in ghee. Dania picked fresh from the garden. My mother’s rosemary bushes—every meal infused with rosemary, a new habit, a new pleasure, and now a sorely missed one.
(T)here: home-made bread and fresh muffins, the nieces who eat these. Cooking for family. Meals are apportioned differently, and it’s more comfortable to eat in than out, to invite others in than to go out.
I play Martha in Kenya.
And I’ve forgotten how to play Mary here.