Ethiopian Food

Ethiopian Food

“What the hell is this?”  I asked Brian, as the waiter brought over our food.   I looked at the red mush, the brown chunks next to it (which I assumed were some form of meat).  Brian responded, “I told you already, it’s called wat.  It’s a typical Ethiopian dish.  It’s just chicken and onion and spices.”  He gestured toward the plate in the middle of the table, on which lay a pile of pancake-like structures with holes in them, resembling squashed pumice stones. “You eat it with injera, this bread here,” he added. 

I picked up a piece of “injera” and dipped it in some gunk.  This was not my idea of fine-dining.  This was not my idea of fun.  This was not my idea of a good time.

 

The night went on, and Brian and I engaged in stilted conversation.  It was our third date, so you’d think we’d have a lot to talk about, all that “get to know you” stuff.  But the more Brian talked, the more I disliked him.  His pretentiousness (“Oh, this wat lacks fenugreek”), his over-confident air (“When you date me, you get to taste foods from all over the world”) and his annoying laughter at his own stupid jokes (“Then I told him, not that kind of cheek, he-e-e-e-e-e”). 

I looked across at Brian, and wondered why I was doing this to myself.  I had signed up for Match two weeks ago, on my little sister’s advice.  “Everyone’s doing it,” she whined over Skype.  She sat on her couch, hundreds of miles away, in her powder pink jumpsuit.  Its zip-up sweatshirt, covered in fur and silver sparkles, rested on top of her messy blond ponytail.  I looked at her, smiled, and said “OOOOOOOOkkkay, I’ll try it.”

When you’re 39 and single, people generally don’t bug you about your dating life.  At such a point, most people figure “She must be happy on her own” or “She must not want a family.”  Or, the most likely response, “She must be so devastated that she hasn’t found ‘the one,’ and that she’s all alone, a few short steps away from spinsterhood.”  But none of these were the case for me.

Josie was my boss, and she was my world.  I had worked as her assistant at Solister’s and Associates for the past nine years.  Josie was an up-and-coming attorney back then, and she was made a partner just under a year ago.  She considered her promotion “the best thing ever.”  It was also a huge promotion (ching ching!) for me.  But, I honestly didn’t care about that.  I was just happy that Josie was taking me along with her up the ladder, and that I wasn’t being left behind for whatever new low-level attorney they hired.

Back to “my world:” Josie was it.  Every morning, on my way to work, I felt both dread and longing – dread at the idea of sitting at a desk all day doing paperwork, and a longing to see Josie anew.  I yearned for the moment she would first acknowledge me; whether it be a wave hello, eye contact and a smile, or powerwalking toward my desk, file in hand and immediate instructions.  When she wasn’t directly addressing me, I indulged in just looking at her.  She was no supermodel:  about 15 pounds overweight, thin blond hair (perhaps a bit thinner than nine years ago, when she was just 35), and a not-so-keen fashion sense.  But I loved her all the same.  I looked at her little muffin top peeking out where her tight skirt pinched her hips, the faint wrinkles over her mouth that had started to form in recent years, and how her stockings ran over her paradoxically long and stumpy legs.  These moments of secret admiration were the most precious to me.    

Sadly, all of the energy I put toward Josie didn’t add up to much, other than a pathetic infatuation.  Josie was married with three kids (ages 10, 12, and 16).  I daydreamed about her having it out with her husband after she dramatically confessed to him that she was in love with her assistant; he would shout at her “How is it possible?!” and she would yell back, tears running down her face “I don’t know, I just don’t know.”  But this would never happen.  Josie loved being a wife and mother, loved providing for her family, loved loving them.

So my secret lesbian-self lived in my secret box, and there I would stay.  

Images of Josie flashed through my mind as Brian continued his monologue about Ethiopian spices.  My life, my falsehood, my sorrowful existence, they all didn’t seem as bad as sitting here across from Brian.  I got up, excused myself, saying I had to use the ladies room.  I picked up my purse and sweater, and very openly walked out the exit door of the restaurant, onto the empty sidewalk and the dark, cool night.  I saw Brian’s confused expression through the front window of the restaurant as I walked ahead, toward the metro station. 

I knew I would never have Josie, I knew I would always be alone in my closet, pitied by all.  But I would rather it be that way forever than have to face that nasty Ethiopian food again.