Flash Back to the BEGINNING of the decade

Hey there, reader(s), Heba here, live from the very crowded Cairo Airport where I prepare to return to the states to ring in the New Year (and from where I will be collaborating on the New Years Eve blog virtually with Fada who will, by then, have returned to Cairo from snowy England).

As we prepare to begin a new decade, we leave behind memories of Y2K, hanging chads, and, if we are lucky, the over-use of the term "aoli" to describe a side of mayonnaise.

But something I'll never forget - wooing my first boyfriend as a "grown-up" single gal living in the big city...and so I bring you:

Food Memory Circa 2001 - The First Meal I Ever Cooked for a Boy

I was never much of a cook, not until recently that is; it was too easy to have Chinese delivered, pick up some sushi on the way home, pop in to the Mexican restaurant around the corner, or use a mixture of morse code and flashing mirrors to order a pizza (or, you know, the phone). In 2001 that all changed, I was on the cusp of having my first real, life-as-a-grownup boyfriend who I was intent on wooing. A hipster before it was hip, a foodie before I knew such a thing existed; he was always making guacamole (with cilantro, the way I now make it), stews and chowders from frozen fish he’d stocked up on, or various meats on his bbq. I was terrified; the wooing would have to involve me cooking, there was no question about it. Future-boyfriend was looking for a future-girlfriend who knew her way around the kitchen.

The day of The Wooing, I called my mother. I had described my favorite meal (Chicken Divan) to my future-boyfriend and he had been intrigued by its homey casserole-ness. I was intrigued by the fact that, despite having eaten this meal at least 10 times a year for my entire life, I hadn’t a clue what was in it besides Chicken and Cheese. Mom had to set me straight. She had to explain to me how you had to PRE-COOK the chicken and broccoli, not just throw it all in the dish and then into the oven. She had to guide me through the super-market, via old-school giant cell phone with bad reception, to help me find the canned mushrooms and relay to me just which particular Campbell’s soup made the casserole-ness come out just right; she had to explain to me what curry was. I got home just in time to start cooking.

I had cleaned the tiny studio apartment top-to-bottom and placed the tiny dining table right in front of the sliding glass doors so we could gaze out on the magnificent view of ... er ... the people in the next apartment building. I even had candles out because, in my mind, that’s what grownups used for wooing.

But what really did the wooing was the casserole, with it’s crust of melted cheese on top browning ever-so-slightly, and it’s delicious scent filling my tiny galley kitchen-hallway-closet.

The future-boyfriend arrived with a few wildflowers he’d plucked from the obliging road divide in front of my high-rise apartment and immediately began sniffing the air. Rubbing his hands together in excitement, his eyes growing ever wide, future-boyfriend said with great hope and excitement, “Ooooo, is that curry I smell?”

Yes, it was INDEED curry, and, luckily, one of his favorite spices. Wooing accomplished. Future-boyfriend was boyfriend before the meal was through.