We set to chopping the ingredients to make the base of the sauce—onion, garlic, capsicum, celery, Scotch bonnet, tomatoes, and fresh thyme. The veg is beautiful, grown right here in Sarah’s garden.
I give Hope an onion to dice while I work on the tomatoes. When she presents it to me, I see she’s done a beautiful job.
“Wow,” I say. “Impressive knife skills for a civilian.”
“I confess I’m notthatbad in the kitchen. I just don’t like to whisk. What next?”
“Want to chop the capsicum?”
“The what?”
“Oh. You speak American. The bell pepper.”
“Excuse me, your majesty,” she says in a faux-British accent that sounds like Dick Van Dyke inMary Poppins.
“What an uncanny impression of me.”
She gets to work on her task and I do the Scotch bonnet and garlic. I’m warming oil to sweat the alliums when my eye starts watering from the sun cream I put on my face, which is sweating into my eyes from the heat of the kitchen. I reach up to wipe away a tear.
“Fucking fuck,” I hiss, as my eyeball screams in protest.
Hope looks at me in alarm. “What’s wrong?”
“Got chili in my bloody eye.”
I cook with Scotch bonnet all the time. I cannot believe I’ve done something so asinine. I was paying more attention to Hope than the food.
Sarah hears me hissing and rushes over.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “Beginner’s mistake.”
“I actually own two restaurants,” I admit through the pain. “I’m just an idiot.”
“Should you wash it off with some water?” Hope asks, gesturing at the sink.
“Won’t help. I don’t suppose you have any milk?” I ask Sarah.
“You’re going to put milk in youreye?” Hope asks.
“No, my hands are covered in Scotch bonnet.You’regoing to put milk in my eye.”
Sarah brings us a bowl of it and a clean towel. Hope washes her hands up to the elbows as I try not to jump around in agony, and then dabs a bit of milk onto the cloth. I sit down so she can reach.
She carefully smooths the hair out of my eyes.
“I’m going to drip it in,” she says. “I don’t want to scratch your cornea.”
“Couldn’t feel worse than this.”
She squeezes milk from the cloth directly into my eye, and I blink and rotate my eyeball.
Very attractive, I’m sure.
“Does that feel any better?” she asks.
“It does. But my pride physically hurts.”
“Yes, I’m not terribly convinced of your talents in the kitchen. I blame it on the lack of culinary school.”
