“You’ve got t’ admit it, Mum, Daddy’s roast chicken is better than yours”, said with a provocative smile, and a little sideways nod of his head.

At that moment, I was lifting a roast chicken, hot out of the oven. The whole house fragrant from its cooking.  Earlier, I had picked fresh thyme and oregano from the heavy terracotta pots I had brought with us from our old garden to this one. I had added the sunshine sharpness of a lemon, a scattering of salt, pepper, and plenty of olive oil.

The gateways of our lives, and so many communal moments in between, are measured out with olive oil. When Greek babies are christened, their naked, lettuce-soft skin is dressed with olive oil. Then they are half-drowned, immersed three-times in the water to be born back into air, thick with incense, screaming out the devil.  Big outraged gulping cries – and as new and slippery as when they first came ashore.

“Hmm” I said. “So, I’ve got’tadmit it, have I? Leg?” as I wrapped the hot ankle bone so he could hold it without burning or getting his fingers greasy.

“Yes, please. Yours is good too.”

In our new, but very old kitchen. The two of us, boy and I, and three cats. The tabby hopeful, sniffing, landed with a definite thump on the work-top. Mewing, she butted my arm with her strong head. I cooled a few strips of breast for her. Put them in the bowl on the side as she pushed my hand away and started chewing steadily. Ginger, nowhere to be seen. Not much interested in real food. Mr Pickles, watching and learning. Not bold enough to make a direct approach.  “Mr Pickles, you too”, as I put a little in his bowl.

My boy was also hovering by my elbow, hungry.

“What does Daddy do to it, then?”

“Not sure, honey, I think” he said, little face peering over his plate – “Ooh, yes!” He said as I put the drumstick on it.

“So how do you roast your chicken,” I asked a few days later, on the phone. “Bean, really likes it. Tells me it’s better than mine”.

Daddy laughed more than necessary. “Honey, er bbq sauce, bit of honey, not sure. Shove it in the oven.” he said. 

“Great, thanks. I’ll try a bit of honey and sauce then.” I said.

Sometimes you’ve got to swallow your pride.

My next weekend, I tried again.

“Is it Daddy’s recipe?”, my boy asked as I lifted the tray, steaming from the oven.

“Yes, Daddy’s roast chicken”, I said, “only, a little bit burnt. That’s the honey”, I said.  

My boy laughed, and said it wasn’t burnt, well, maybe a little, but that’s ok, crispy skin is the best.

Sweet was never an epithet I wanted, or deserved. When he was breaking up with me, and I was trying not to for the sake of our boy, and my own hopes of being a real family, and to hang on to all the good things that I thought we had,  Daddy told his mother I was “sweet”.  Sweet, the simplest of flavours. Soda-pop, unsophisticated, sweet. Neither of us liked sweet. We would forgo pudding for an interesting starter. Hot, earthy, salty, sharp. His mother, Grandma, had reported this to me. “Sweet, me? Really?” Hurt and sickened as I realised that he had turned up his nose and rejected me, (or at least his vague idea of me) entirely, though he camouflaged his disgust and rejection of me as a compliment.

Burnt sugar turns bitter. An attentive cook, knows to catch and cool it at the point before, just where it will add caramel-depth to a plain set-custard. I had finally paid attention to the fact that I had to turn down the heat while sitting on the stairs howling quietly into a tissue again, as Daddy walked away again. Looking up I caught the hurt and confusion on my son’s face echoing back my own.  He touched my arm tentatively, then came close for a cuddle. “It’s ok, Mum” he said. “No it’s not,” I said, “but it will be”.

Now at our new very old house there are, too many empty chairs around our table, so more often than not, just the two of us eat sitting in front of the tv with plates on our laps.

Before at our old house, when we were still together, tea times were the usual kids stuff: table-manners, sausages, chicken, baked beans, strict ketchup rationing.

Daddy’s older boys would complain that the softest chicken breast was “too chewy”. “It’s meat”, I would say. “that’s what teeth are for”, as I gritted mine.

Then one day, they stopped eating sausages. It was just in time for tea. I gritted my teeth tighter than usual, and spooned extra beans.

The food on your plate can be a declaration of love, or of war. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference. Either way, tragedy loses any dignity in a mess of beans or gravy 

Later, recounting the story of our tea-time when Daddy had still been at work, I tried-out indignation: “Not halal? But they love sausages. Since when?” 

I muttered something uncharitable about the applicability of Sharia law. Then out louder and with added blasphemy, “Oh, for God’s sake,  So sausages were ok, but now they’re not?”

“Yep,” he said, “Guess so”.

“Fine”, I said, brightly. “…fish fingers”. 

This didn’t have to be our war, but it was difficult to remember that as destabilising shots were fired over our borders. I didn’t intend pork to be a political statement, but that was especially hard being Cypriot and knowing the significance of pork kebab on a menu.

I loved that he cooked for me. Simple tasty things. In hospital, after our boy made his first appearance three-and-a-half weeks early, Daddy turned up appropriately enough. with a bag for life. From it he unpacked china plates, cutlery,  and served a full roast chicken dinner complete with gravy at my hospital bed. While we ate, we stared at our under-baked son: white nappy up to his armpits, little arms and  legs akimbo under warming lights. I don’t remember ever being happier.

Last summer, I went to visit Grandma, at Daddy’s new house for a cuppa after school. “Cake?” She asked.

“Always”, I said. “thanks”, expecting a slightly disappointing supermarket sponge. Instead Grandma brought out two plates carefully unwrapping home-baking paper. “Banana Bread or fruit cake?”

“Oooh, fruit-cake please”, I said. Then between mouthfuls and sipping tea. “So who’s been baking? Two cakes!”

“K [Daddy’s new girlfriend]” Grandma said.

“Hmmmmph” I said, as a drop or two of tea exploded from my mouth.