Monday, 22 December 2014
Luba's Chicken Pate
Luba was our friend.
She grew up in Beirut.
Long ago before the troubles came.
She told stories of a home in an apartment block built around an open atrium.
At night in the summer heat they would lean over the balcony facing the atrium chatting to neighbors.
Many neighbors many languages. She spoke more languages than I have fingers.
One Christmas she made a large amount of chicken pate.
She put the pate into the cups of a tea set.
Cheaper than buying Tupperware, “She said”
I have one sixth of the tea set.
I don’t remember the recipe for the chicken pate.
I remember Luba.