What is done is done. The cutting and chopping of the alliums is as fragrant as it is wounding. The smell of it all is intoxicating as much as the burning of the oil on the stove is suffocating. There were cries, while the noodles got cold. The food is ready, yet no one is seated. You are no longer here.
You peeled me like an onion, as you liked to say. To peel an onion: leaving the root reduces the cries as the toxins are not yet released; cutting it in half, eases the removal of the tunic and outermost scales; lastly, letting the knife do the work. No longer with you, asking myself why, trying reach the zest.
As one peels the garlic, the crush releases what is within its clove. Mincing, however, delivers all its potent aroma, which only strengthens as time passes; though, that only until the heat puts a stop to the process of bitterness. What we should have done is to have stopped immediately. The prolonging of it all just made the end even more bitter.
Along with those fragments, I still add the gochujang powder you once gave me, but only as an addition to the chili flakes, sesame seeds and peanut butter of my own. Once your powder is gone, I do not think I will ever be needing it anymore.
The burnt smell of all the oils. With the initial pour, my thought will always go to sunflower first, as you were my first; that I cannot change, but as toxic as we were – I opt for other options: olive, peanut, mostly soybean. As it starts burning, only then do I add the other elements – sesame and Sichuan oil. The latter is too spicy if added too early, it will only suffocate you. We did that. That was our mistake.
As we would pour the oils into a bowl, the sizzling of the heat on the ingredients is the silence we would hear, as it was the only time we both truly stopped screaming at each other. Just like those brief instances we truly loved each other without any bitterness. Ultimately, that is still an essence of the dish as it was an essence of who we were together – sharp and bitter.
With all of that, we would always forget the beginning of it all. The noodles had gotten cold by then, too late to be kept warm. As it all merged, everything just became confusing. We would get lost too often and that, in our vicious cycle of hate.
The dish never tastes the same anymore. Walked down my garden of roses, that is what you did. Your rays brought light into my sanctuary, but sadly there were no sunflowers. They were never truly mine to begin with. What is gone is gone.
I hope you are doing well.