2 peppers, 1 courgette, a red onion and a large aubergine…
Finally, something more interesting to make besides pureed carrots and sweet potato.
Today was batch cooking day. My son was napping and I planned to use this time wisely. I had my Annabel Karmel book open on the counter, and three trays full of sliced vegetables, ready for roasting.
My husband enters the open plan living room and kitchen and settles down in front of the TV. It’s his day off and he chats to me as he grabs the remote control and channel hops.
At one point he says something so unreasonable and unable to bite my tongue, I reply in a mildly sarcastic tone “yeah ok, if you say so…”
All of a sudden, he locks eyes with me and then bounds towards me, jumping over the makeshift barrier that I’d put up to prevent my son from crawling into the kitchen earlier.
Within seconds he’s right up close to my face, breathing heavily and asking me menacingly to repeat what I just said. I stand there silently, not moving an inch. Then he prods my chin, once, twice, and asks me to say it again. It’s the first time he’s ever touched me aggressively and this is new territory; so I keep quiet.
Unable to get a response from me, he looks down at the trays on the counter, picks them up and sends them flying, one by one, into the air. As they come crashing down onto the counter and the kitchen floor, I watch with shock as the 2 peppers, 1 courgette, a red onion and a large aubergine, all sliced thinly and neatly, land on the floor, the counter, behind the kettle and toaster and God knows where else.
I instantly burst out crying – what had my poor son done to deserve this? This food was for him and would have made a few days’ worth of meals. How could my husband lack such empathy that he sees no problem with ruining it all?
Not content with throwing the trays about, my husband turns around and finishes taking out his anger on the kitchen bin. He kicks it over and over until dents emerge. Finally, he kicks my makeshift barrier out of the way and marches out of the room, and out of the house.
Hardly able to see through my tears, and with my nose running, I crawl around on my hands and knees, bawling at what just happened, picking up the little pieces of food off the floor and throwing them into the now broken bin…
I call my sister sobbing and when she asks me what’s wrong, I tell her in Arabic that my husband is a ‘majnoon’ – i.e. someone who can’t control their anger.
Because that’s what this is right – he’s just someone with an anger problem…
He’s not abusive….