True. This had become ridiculous. She considered whether a spreadsheet could make things easier. She couldn’t let her parents know about her friendship with Nadim, and couldn’t tell him about her father’s business troubles. And, of course, no one could find out that she’d lost her job. The only secret easy to keep here was the head lice.
She took a long sip of the beer. “Just follow my lead. Why are you early, anyway? I told you Marley won’t make it until six thirty, at least.”
“I know. I wanted to watch you cook dinner. Since we’re supposed to be fake-engaged, I figured I should see you cook more than once before we film.”
She laughed. “Sorry, I’m not going to cook after all. Not when I have all this stuff Mum made. You okay with Indian food?”
“IamIndian, Reena. More than okay with it.” He sighed. “I miss my real food, the stuff I grew up on in Africa. Indian food in restaurants is nothing like the Gujarati–East African stuff we were raised on, right?”
“There are a few decent East African restaurants in town. I’ll take you one day. But, yeah, I know what you mean. Restaurant Indian food isn’t the same.”
“The joys of being a double-migrant.”
Reena hadn’t heard that term before but liked it. She smiled. “Double-migrant because our families first migrated from India to Tanzania, then Tanzania to Canada?”
“Yup. Of course, for me it’s India to Tanzania to UK then to Canada. Triple-migrant.”
But he didn’t want to stay here.
“That’s why I learned to cook,” Reena said. “I wanted to be able to eat the good stuff without relying on my mother.”
“The little bit of your mum’s food I’ve had has been great. I think you’re the better cook, though.”
“You’re sweet. You really going to Sunday brunch this week?”
“Yes. They invited me, so I must go.”
She smiled as she patted his shoulder. “Well, have fun. I’ll be up north with friends.”
“What? You’re leaving me to face the den of wolves alone?”
She laughed. “Yup. You’ll do fine. They’re more bark than bite. Well, usually, at least.”
At dinner, Reena found it hard to pay attention to the conversation around her. Confirmation that her parentsdidsell her in a business deal had soured her mood.
She poked at her kebob, moving it around with her spoon.
“This is good,” Nadim said, eyeing her plate.
Reena tried to smile. “It is.”
“So, like,” Shayne said, helping himself to more kebob, “for the first video, you’re going to do Indian-fusion food, right? Like…I don’t know…curried shepherd’s pie, or butter chicken poutine?”
“No,” Reena and Nadim both said simultaneously. He looked at her and laughed.
“Sorry,” he said. “It’s up to Reena, she’s the expert, but personally,fusionjust means dumbed down. We don’t have to conform our food to the tastes of the majority.”
A small smile pushed through her sour mood. She’d been thinking the same thing, albeit she would have said it a bit differently. The point of this contest was to showcasehome-cookedfood. Fusion had its time and place, but with all the crap minorities were facing in the world, she didn’t feel much like making the food she grew up on more palatable to mainstream tastes.
“They want home cooking, so let’s give them the kind of food we grew up on,” Reena said, sitting straighter. “What was your favorite after-school snack when you were little?”
Nadim frowned. “At boarding school, they gave us tea and two biscuits. No more, no less.”
“Poor little rich boy.” Shayne laughed.
Marley’s forehead furrowed as she tapped her nails on the table. “Probably celery and peanut butter for me. Or Oreos.”
Reena chuckled. “Indian food, Marl…”
