I'm thinking this week about how much I used to get done in a week as a teenager. I'm also thinking about how many of the things I did, said, and wrote at the time I look back at with embarrassment rather than fondness. But there was quite a lot swirling around in that anxious, readerly, angsty soup that's worth looking at again. What follows is a piece I wrote at that time, freshly 16. It was hard to look at it. There's so much I'd do differently now, at the level of the form, the sentence, even the word. Even so, there's something to be said for the writing you can only write as a teenager.
After the piece, a short nostalgic recipe.
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Read this story out loud, for it the most innocent of stories. Call someone, and when they pick up, begin to read. Read in your best teenager voice, your best I’m not innocent but I am naïve, your best where-do-we-go-from-here voice. Read it like you are it. Because you are.
“It’s one in the morning”
I know. I want ice cream.
“What’s wrong with you?”
I can’t sleep.
A pregnant pause. Perhaps you, too, have woken someone up to read to them. That’s okay.
“Meet me in front of the park. You’re paying, and if my parents catch me sneaking out I’ll kill you.”
Yeah, yeah. Bring your phone with you.
I slip quickly into a sweater. Phone flashlight on, muted by my fingertips. Rubber chappals held gingerly in the other hand as I go down the stairs. Prevent the sound of rubber slapping white marble floors and parents awakening to see my figure stark against a curtain less window next to my bedroom filtering moonlight.
Suddenly, my phone lights up. Unbelievably loud, a heavily sleazy Bollywood song he’d set on my phone as a custom ringtone for himself last Diwali. Quickly cross the living room, lock the door behind me.
Maybe you want to try it out for yourself, trying to turn a key in hushed agitation. You’ll find it isn’t easy.
I answer his call.
“Where are you?”
I’m leaving, wait.
“Come quickly, it’s freezing.”
Darkened street, trees silent sentinels across from the row of houses. He’s in the halo of a harsh white street lamp where there’s an intersection with a different street. Hands in the front pocket of a faded blue sweatshirt. Hair tousled, hanging in front of his eyes.
“Which raidi will even still be around?”
Eyes flit over my exhausted expression. Does your voice sound tired when you read me out? Come with us. It’s late, but we’re here. He’s here.
Near the market in front of the mandir.
(Why do you know this?) “Who eats ice cream in this weather, anyway?”
Uncharacteristically gentle smile.
Shut up.
A tiny silence. You should know, it’s the crevices of speech in which the most is said.
“Were you up doing homework?”
No.
“Okay.” Twigs crunching as we walk, little breaks in the chill quiet. “Which one do you want to get?”
A chocobar.
“Wow, I’m friends with the most boring guy in this city”
No, I’m classic.
Shake of the head. “Right, of course. My apologies, you’re a man of refined taste eating 10-rupee ice cream in the cold while everyone is asleep.”
I’ll slap you.
Maybe you understand me, because you too, have snapped when that wasn’t what you meant. Did they brush it off and smile a warm smile like he did?
“I want one of those twisty ones with two colours.”
I have simple tastes, you have the taste of a five-year-old.
“Hey, I’m the one walking to a random tiny market with you at the weirdest time possible. You don’t get to insult me.”
(You’re right) Watch me.
Ice cream cart illuminated by bright white strip lights inside the hood, bouncing off in silvery streams from the metal cold box. Ice cream guy inexplicably wide awake. Within view of the mandir, everything is still. Darkened and large, its presence looms. A bubble of silence, in which we make our way to the only circle of light, - the street lights haven’t been fixed in three years- the cart. Night silence unbroken, ice creams of choice pointed to on a ratty product card. Twisty ice cream unavailable in pink and purple, green and blue settled for.
Here, pause for breath. Listen to the breathing of whoever you’ve called on the other end of the line.
“This was actually kind of fun.” His phone plays, on low volume, old Queen songs he almost definitely didn’t pay to download.
Yeah, if only your ice cream choice wasn’t so bad. (Yes)
“I’ll ignore that, but rude.”
Weirdo.
Vapour emerges from the frozen treats. Pure white, a wispy dream.
“I’ll drop you home”
Okay.
Here, pause. Smile a little. This isn’t where the story ends, this is just how it was contained.
“See you later”
Yeah, bye.
(Thank you)
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Kaya
Very heavily borrowing from Rasa Malaysia
5 eggs
200g sugar
Coconut cream
Coconut milk
Pandan essence to taste (I am heavy handed with it)
Cornstarch and water as needed for slurry.
70g sugar for the caramel
Whisk eggs, coconut cream, coconut milk, and sugar.
Strain into a saucepan.
Add pandan essence (you’re supposed to use fresh leaves but I couldn’t find any) and stir the custard over medium low heat until thickening. Most custard and curd recipes have you use a double boiler, where you place a steel bowl over a pot of boiling water and allow the heat of the steam to cook your egg mixture. Double boilers are for cowards. I’ve never accidentally scrambled my eggs while making custard or curd.
If needed, add a cornstarch slurry.
In a separate saucepan, caramelise sugar. I like to take this quite far, dark brown rather than glistening amber. At the stage where you’re happy with the colour of the caramel, add it to the custard.
If you like your kaya silky, add the mixture, once cooled, to a blender and blend till shiny and smooth.
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Spreading life on toast,
Tej x
