I Succumb To Soulful Pleasure
Ask anyone close to me and they’d tell you my biggest obsession is Dibba. An obsession so deep that it sickens them. Yes Diba, Dibbah, Doba, or even Daba. I never really knew there were so many names to call this little peaceful piece of a town. I only called her Dibba. Obsessions can come about in different ways – and mine was through trauma. The trauma of being plucked away too soon from where it all had started. Plucked without a warning. Plucked without being told I couldn’t be put back there. Dibba was the childhood I longed for again and again.
My brother and I had two choices for weekends: to go to the park and run around or head to our favourite little beach near the mountains. Sometimes if we were lucky, we got to do both. And if things just weren’t feeling so leisurely, we were taken along to the fruits and vegetables market or the fish market. Scuttling around the market hiding behind crates, I never took the time to stop and smell the peaches. The only memory of good food revolved around the home kitchen – especially, my mother's oven. Her burnt sugar cakes and bread puddings. Her semolina halwas. My first baking as a kid – baked apples. My first kitchen disaster – those very same baked apples. I think I vowed not to cook again, because it took me around eight years to find the courage again to make something on my own. What came with me throughout these years until now, with all the memories, is that oven. I began my midnight baking with her. She’s old and rusty now and sits waiting for me to adopt her, which I will. That is the only one material thing I want to inherit from my mother.