The Art of Eating In - Cathy Erway [85]
But none of this could have prepared me for the topic of conversation that began a few moments after Ben walked in. He seemed stressed, nervous, and uncomfortable. He began by restating that some things “had changed.” I waited for more.
“Don’t you think so, too?” he pried.
“What things? I have no idea what things you’re talking about.”
He went on. It was a lot of little things, not any one big thing. But for him, at least, they were enough to make him decide that he wanted a major change. After three hours of back-and-forth debate, frustration, and utter confusion, at least three things were clear. One, Ben and I were breaking up. Two, he would take the apartment for the rest of the lease while I found someplace else to live. Three, I was no longer going to Richard and Sam’s wedding in Mexico next month, and Ben would eat the cost of my plane ticket.
The next night I went to see Erin sing with her band at a small bar, and all my friends were there. I think they were just as blind-sided by the breakup as I was, which felt somewhat comforting. Erin had just stared for what seemed like a full minute after I told her the news.
“But why?” she finally demanded to know.
There was little I could tell her. Immediately, my gut had told me that Ben’s decision had something to do with a certain coworker whom he’d been spending a lot of time with lately. But he had hotly denied this, and my accusations got us absolutely nowhere over the course of the fight. I put this suspicion aside and didn’t offer it to my friends at Erin’s show. Just as soon as their initial shock had worn off, they were quick to jump to my ego-boosting aid. I’d be better off now, they assured me. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I believed this was true, too.
That week, as I began hunting for a new place to live, Ben avoided being in the apartment as much as possible, staying with friends on most nights. All of a sudden, I was cooking weeknight meals for just one.
My mom and Jo-Jo had planned to come over for dinner that weekend after my trip, to see my photos, claim their souvenirs, and enjoy a homemade Moroccan dinner. It was also going to be a late birthday celebration for Jo-Jo. But the day after my return from vacation, Gong-Gong was taken to the hospital with a case of pneumonia. He was moved to intensive care the next morning. My mother called me that day to tell me the news. The doctor didn’t want to keep our hopes up. He was doubtful my grandfather would live much longer than a few days, in his fragile state. My mom spent the next day in his hospital room along with Jo-Jo. Later that night, with Jo-Jo beside his bed, he passed away He was eighty-two years old, and my last living grandparent.
We decided to still do dinner at my apartment that Sunday. Gong-Gong’s funeral wouldn’t take place until a few months later, when his ashes would be placed to rest in a temple. For the time being, they would be held in the crematory, and to pay respect to the dead, my uncle was observing a Buddhist tradition of abstaining from meat for eighty days. He encouraged me to go ahead and cook anything I wanted on Sunday, and he would just eat whatever vegetables were there. But I decided to prepare an all-vegetarian feast. Fortunately, this wouldn’t be too difficult with Moroccan cuisine.
I planned to make the taktouka again, this time with better bread, a spicy braised eggplant dish, and a savory vegetable couscous. Our Marrakesh cooking-class instructor, Mohammed, had begun his lecture by explaining that couscous was Morocco’s national dish and its importance could not be understated. Classic vegetable couscous was a focal point of the Moroccan table, from wedding banquets and holidays to everyday meals, and a proper feast wasn’t complete without it. Since it took so long to prepare, Mohammed recited only a recipe