Hot peppers and fried crimson tomatoes-a little story on food by (Hala) by Al-Logaha Hand
In a ceramic tagine frying pan, I take the luscious wet crimson tomatoes and I add fresh lime green hot peppers with laden lukewarm water and I fry. I fry the spirit of me. The aroma is torched by my tie dye dress reeking with Paco Rabbane Million Dollar Lady perfume in this heat and I drift. The aroma is a drifter. I open a window and the scented angel of frying hot peppers and deeply sifted tomatoes permeates my bedroom. My tongue hangs loose and laps up the utterances of understanding. Again, I fry in this African thunder magnitude. My eyes are spread with pitch black kohl, blackened; they divine the future while pondering the pumping of veggies into dinner. My frying pan evaporates dripping hot steam and the flame of the moment prospers. I find gold in these earth bound foods. I sit down to eat at a precious etched wooden table, lingering with a vase filled with fire and ice roses that center my heart. My mouth lingers in its own juices. The sweltering of the hot fried peppers burns my tongue and my blood is ignited into making friends with power tools. I dream up another drifter. Sifted, we remember. Momentous share-cropper ignores. Won’t those tomatoes all dust with lust steal my soul for the devil? No, instead it replaces lust with enlightenment and the power of the sun fills up my anxious belly. I won’t need a hug today. I have fulfilled what it means to be a real woman and my thick thighs realize the ancient dichotomy of surreal rust. Thin is a state of mind, a temporary realization, if not only part of the story. These veggies give me life. I am burning in a house of cards; the tarot reads that luck is just around the corner. Drenched incognito, the replacement soul arrives. Here we go futuristic robot-let the tongue and belly filled with seething African dominance never die and live to tell what it means to exist in a phenomena known as a surrealist dream. Whispering: Moving: Living on Fire.