I looked out of the window, and there she was. Trying her best to balance legs, bowls and different platters on the narrow pathway.
If it had not been for the fact that she came from the garden. If she had not moved so gently and cautiously amongst the snow. If she hadn`t worn down jacket and way big sneakers. Then it would look like any given restaurant. At any given day.
But it wasn`t. It was china in the snow. There were soup- bowls in my garden.
Someone was living in my garage.
And I was suddenly the madam.
She knocked, and let herself in. What now had become our little compromise. It had taken me weeks with persuasions, and eventually I had to blame my back. It was the only alternative, as everything else had failed. When finally insisting on the pain that followed the formalities, she caved. By nature, we were just as stubborn. However, we were both negotiators. So she knocked. And I stayed on the couch.
The soup was steaming hot, so she put it down carefully in front of me. Then she wandered off to the kitchen for a split second. When she came back, she had some piece of bread between her hands, and suggested I had some in my soup. She sat down next to me, and smiled. Her hand found mine, and then she gazed into the air, as if she was looking for something. And there it was. A delicate mix of Norwegian and Swedish. «You have to eat, my dear friend”, she said slowly, and continued.” You`re so skinny. Eat this. It`s fat. You need fat». She handed me the spoon, and nodded while smiling. And then she fixed her eyes on me.
It was far from the everyday routine having meals prepared in the garage. Let alone pigs and porks. But then again, it wasn`t an everyday affair having gypsys living at your place either.
The smell was divine, and my stomach was rumbling, – so without any hesitation I dug in. There were spices from all around the world, and they fitted each other perfectly. All this, she made out there, I thought to myself. Without exception, she had always turned down the offer to use my kitchen when she was cooking. Now it made perfect sense, of course. Why would she? These were recipes, handed down, one generation after the next. Enabling a life out on the streets. In the woods. In a temporary camp.
And now.
Here.
In a garage, in a residential block
In the south of Norway