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The cooking house

March 28, 2012
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The cooking house

The cooking house

There was a house on a corner.  You could look through the entrance into the courtyard area where there were linens hanging drying, plants, chairs, rugs and a parrot in a cage.  The kitchen window was open, the TV switched on and women bustling around cooking.  The warm aroma of spices would hit you as you rounded the corner.  There was a sort of cage outside, made of chicken wire, holding sacks of charcoal and fire wood.  When the back gate was open, stacks of enormous cooking pots and gas rings were revealed.  Sometimes a man would be crouching there stirring a pot.  When I had my camera the gate was always shut (and open when I didn’t).  Mini vans were often parked outside, stacked to the roof with pots, rugs, kettles and plastic containers.  I finally guessed that mass catering for weddings must have been the purpose, but I always called it ‘the cooking house’.

Then after one weekend, the whole thing was gone.  The pots and pans, the chairs, the tv, the parrot.  The windows were ripped out, the back gate taken off its hinges, the courtyard strewn with rubbish.

The cooking house is no more.  Only my dogs know what went on before, as they like to stop for an intense sniffing session as we round the corner.  Where did it go?

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