After a month (and arguably a lifetime) of seeing and hearing how men can be the absolute worst, a deep fatigue has overtaken me. Perhaps most dispiriting about the way these things unfurl is the predictability of the response from some quarters. Women are directly (or indirectly) blamed for the harassment or assault visited upon them, and tiers that stratify victims emerge, from those who most “deserve” our pity to those least worthy of it. The lessons we thought were learned keep needing to be re-taught. It’s exhausting.
To decompress, and expunge the rage from my body, I have been cooking a lot more than usual. Summer is a time for salads and blush-coloured drinks. As the temperature drops, I take up residence in the kitchen, stirring thick, heavy dishes that look a little like potions. Encouraged by the weather, I have begun the wider process of hibernation. This year, it started with buying about 57 candles and scrubbing the kitchen floor, but culminated in the aromatic smell of a Lancashire hotpot (I add a scotch bonnet or two, because my palate has been shaped by the Nigerian love of all things spicy and hot).
I have no fear in the kitchen — – my parents’ kitchen confidence trickled down –and the repetitive motions of chopping and slicing are mindlessly soothing, the perfect task to temporarily empty your brain of bad men and the things they do. The scent of alliums frying is the perfume I would dab at my pulse points, if it were socially acceptable. Crisp but floury potatoes, and slow-cooked lamb, tender and almost melting off the bone, are like the safety of a friend’s hug. Cooking is sorcery. Some days we desperately need its magic.
