Char Siu

                                              Char Siu
                                              Malenkov

Martin checked, once more, the recipe book with his stubby thumb, running along the little paper list. The box-sized kitchen bubbled with aluminium pots on blue gas jets, woodpecker knife thudding its staccato on a wooden chopping board, ginger and lemon grass wafted in the humid air. The sideboard was crammed with a big clear bowl of grey-blue Tiger prawns, curly tails pointing over the edge, and bits of crispy chicken in honey coloured coats lay in a purple basket, next to which: fist sized, black pebble mussels with dangling algae. Ivory rice steamed in a rice cooker. Scored bamboo shoots marinated, among lime dill, shitake mushrooms with frilly umbrella edges, and a speckled green Chinese aubergine.

                                                            * * *

    Three times during the previous four hours Martin had scampered to and from the Chinese store four blocks away, picking up missing ingredients. Daylight died in the living room, and beads of salt flecked brow, wiped with a salty kitchen rag. Once more thumb ran along check list, hand adjusted serviettes, nudged champagne glasses into optimum positions. A glance at watch, beeswax candles sprang into life, and at last, the sound of a key scrapped in the door lock.
    Natasha had arrived and the sound of their little daughters voice, Jean, piped in the room.
    "Why is this not ready," Natasha brushed Martins shouder, shoved the prawns aside, threw her handbag on the kitchen surface.
    "I said we would be back by six."
    "Love, it took longer - "
    "-You knew we were coming."
    Martin clasped his hands together.
    "Just give me five minutes"
    Natasha called out. "Jean, would you like a sandwich?"
    "Yes mama." A little voice called from next door.
    "For crying out loud, what's in you?" Martin threw the wok in the sink, where it slid and clattered among other pots and pans.
    "Nothings in me."
    Natasha strode in the living room, banging and clacking the table, clicking open cupboard doors. She returned bread board in hand, and Martin moved aside, hands on hips, as she hacked jagged slices of Ciabatta with a kitchen knife.
    "What the hell is with you?"
    "Nothing is with me."
    "I've been slaving like a dog."
    Natasha spread olive-oil margarine in large swathes on the slices of Ciabatta.
    Martin turned off the stove heat, where the pots still bubbled.
    "Jean, do you want something to eat? That Daddy made?"
    "I'm doing something for her - I already said."
    Natasha’s lips were stretched thin, and she looked at the door behind him as he spoke. Her lip curled.
    "Whatever I do is never enough, is it?"
    "Jean, come have something to eat with mummy." Natasha scooped up the sandwiches and arranged them on two plates.
    "You just don’t care what I do for you."
Natasha strolled, head high, like she was balancing a book on her head she didn’t want to drop.
    Martin shook his head and his cheeks quivered as he scrapped the Chari Siu, the mussels, dill, and chicken coats into the waste bin. He ripped up the list, grabbed the house keys from the front door hook, riffled through his wallet for some money. Then he opened the front door.