Issue 11 Mar 2014
In my family we don’t talk. We eat. Whenever there is an issue that festers in our hearts, my mother cooks an elaborate dinner and we sit next to each other in silence chewing away our worries, washing them down with respectable amounts of beer or wine.
The more things we eat, the bigger the problem. The better the cake, the greater my mother’s effort to hide what was on her mind. Year after year, I learned how to read what was for dinner, like others read Tarot cards or palms. I became ‘The food whisperer’.
This night’s special was my brother’s disappearance. A usual occurrence in our household but never one that made my mother roast an entire turkey for three people. As soon as I saw the lifeless bird on our table, I knew it had something to do with Alex not calling to let mum know he was okay.