Hita - Anita Claire Page 0,21
without talking about marriage.”
***
That night when Anil comes to pick me up for dinner, I grab his hand and drag him over to my new car. I’m not a giddy person, but I’m so excited I give my new car a hug, then laughing, I lean against it like I’m a model at a car show giving him a wink. No one else is in the parking lot, but he puts his hands on his hips and gets this annoyed look on his face, finally saying, “Hita, act proper.”
Where on earth is this coming from? Is he angry because I hugged my new car and winked at him? Or is he angry because I didn’t get the car he thought I should get? I’m hoping it’s because he’s working crazy hours and is just spent.
***
Kristi is now on a whole retro Woody Allen kick. On Sunday, we watch Sleeper and Annie Hall with a bowl of popcorn between us. Kristi tells me she’s visiting her folks in Oregon next weekend. Since she won’t be home on Saturday night, when Anil texts me out for dinner, I text back: How about eating at my place this Saturday. I’ll make dinner?
About ten minutes later I get a text back: Yes, that would be great, what time?
Chapter 17 – Dinner
My brain swarms with thoughts of what to make. At first I think I’ll make something real special. After contemplating it for awhile, I realize that I shouldn’t get too fancy since I want the meal to come out well. I’d love to call my mom and have her help me, but she’ll get too nosy if she finds out I’m dating an Indian guy. For a country of over a billion people, it’s surprising the mom network’s connection when it comes to finding a husband. I think within three phone calls, she’ll have the whole background on Anil’s family. If she approves of him, she’ll be pushing us to get married. Though, maybe then I’ll get more than some stupid kiss on my forehead.
Spending way too much time looking through all the handwritten index cards with minimal instructions that my mother gave me, I finally get my shopping list together. After driving a half an hour each way to the Indian grocery store, I start working on dinner. When Anil knocks on the door at six, I actually have the meal in the oven, the table set, and lentil vadas ready to start off with.
He greets me with a big smile and comments on how nice the Indian spices smelled from down the hall, but still no touching. I stand there with a big smile wondering if I should give him a hug. Hearing the beeping go off in our little galley kitchen I wake up from my thoughts and run into the kitchen.
Asking Anil to sit at the table I serve the lentil vadas, we both look at them. With a shrug of my shoulders I say, “They’re not as pretty as the ones we get at a restaurant, but I’m sure they still taste nice.”
Needless to say they look better than they taste. I get a nasty feeling in the pit of my stomach. If I had one of the princesses over and had screwed up, we’d be laughing. But Anil doesn’t seem to have a sense of humor. After taking a bite I get a horrible look on my face, and say, “why does this taste like I made it with plaster of Paris?” Then I start laughing.
He looks at me like I’m crazy saying, “How is ruining perfectly good food funny?”
Now I’m scared that the rest of the meal is screwed up. I’ve never been much of a cook; growing up my mom cooked, in college I was on the meal plan. Last year when Juliette and I shared an apartment, we spent a lot of time experimenting with food. Some things turned out a lot better than others. We always had fun, cheering our successes and joking and laughing over our failures. I eat three meals a day at work, it’s almost like I’m back on a meal plan. Now I’m thinking I forgot what little I knew about cooking.
Taking out my next course I’m hoping for better results. At least I made the rice in a rice cooker, so it must be okay. As I serve the Sambar over the rice, I pray I seasoned it correctly.
One bite in and I’ve scalded my tongue and blown out