Running out of Thyme

Who visits on a Sunday evening? I have work tomorrow, and the last thing I want is to spend time with people who likely hate me during the hours when I contemplate my purpose the most. I slice the carrots with the precision of a samurai, and with each cut, I make sure to land hard on the wooden board so she can sense my frustration.

“When you’re done acting like a child, bring me some flour, and I will deal with the cake.” says the love of my life, my current enemy.

“Anything else?” I reply, letting out a sigh of visible inconvenience.

She drops the spoon audibly on the countertop.

“Dom, if your parents were in town, you’d bend us both over to accommodate them, so I want you to zip it and just be a supportive partner, will you?” she was right, but I wasn’t done with my little tantrum.

“My parents would respect the sanctity of Sunday instead of just casually announcing they’re around town and going to pop in for dinner!” I say, proud of myself.

“So what? Different cultures! You like cooking, and they like eating; they love me and tolerate you – it all seems to point to a nice, mildly inconvenient get-together. Plus, they haven’t seen us since the engagement party – give them a break!”

I would give them a break, but not without a fight. These people have been offering Yasmin various men from her background as potential husbands. And here I was, milkshake white Dom, stealing their beautiful Egyptian princess and holding her hostage in our semi-detached palace in Hounslow. The first time I met them, they grilled me on my political beliefs, making sure I was not CIA or Mossad. The second time, they did a financial evaluation of my savings and stocks to ensure I had enough to sustain a certain number of grandchildren. We decided seven was sustainable, eight would be pushing it, and I would have to do some extra gig work. This would make it the third time meeting them, and knowing I’m not in the good books, I scrambled over the last hour to come up with the best of dishes to hopefully bring them on my team. Constrained by time and lack of ingredients, I will assemble a simple herby chicken, roasted veggies, and rice. For my white family, I would’ve gone with potatoes, but with North Africans, you go with rice. It’s all about being flexible with this cooking thing.

“Here you go. What cake are you making?” I ask, passing the flour.

“Not decided yet, I’ll wing it!” Oh no, the worst thing I can hear as a planner. Someone winging it. She’s a decent baker, but imagination is not her forte, and if she goes down this road of attempting on the go, you never know what she will end up with…

“Can you pass me the herbs we bought the other day?” I ask her.

“Ah, I threw them out. They got frozen on the bottom rack.”

I can feel a vein popping on my neck.

“So… no herbs?”

“No,” she replies as if she didn’t just increase my anxiety tenfold.

This is damning. It’s one thing serving a simple meal, a different one to serve a bland one. I will be cast away, and some guy named Hussain will be on speed dial for the mother.

“Can you deal with the veggies, and I’ll rush to the shop to get some herbs?” I ask, trying to maintain control of the situation.

“Sure – good luck.” replies my current enemy, the love of my life.

I run and feel my Crocs catching fire on the floor. I rush out, grabbing my car keys and phone. The engine is ready, the headlights are on, and Dom’s on a mission. I hit the gas and begin my scramble for herbs on a Sunday evening.

I arrive at Abu Zaad, the main Arab shop on the high street, and start collecting a green bouquet: parsley, thyme, mint, and some chillies. I run towards the counter, and I'm waiting for the shopkeeper to notice me and stop watching TikToks.

“Salem Aleko, mate.” I greet him. “Just the herbs, please.”

He looks at me, a bit disgusted. It must be my pronunciation. My Arabic Duolingo course is a challenging ride, but I’m trying to progress for the sake of my relationship with Yasmin’s parents.

“Two pounds, 30 pence, brother.” He replies, friendly enough.

I checked all my pockets but embarrassingly realised my mistake. I left my wallet at home, and my phone was dead. I had nothing to pay with, and I was holding the queue. A bunch of aunties behind me started sighing and talking in Arabic, visibly annoyed.

“Brother, I live on Cloves Lane,” I say, visibly ashamed. “I can come back with money soon. I really need this. I have my fiancé's parents over, and they’re expecting dinner. Save a friend, please.” My eyes are begging for the mercy of my brother.

He nods and is immovable. Adrenaline is building, and I know that Yas will be on the first flight back to Egypt if this dinner is ruined. I look down at the bunch of herbs in my hand; I slowly pivot and make a dashing run, pushing aunties out of my way, my Crocs screeching on the recently mopped floor. As I see the exit, Mostafa, the butcher, swiftly blocks my path.

“Back of the shop now, brother,” he says as he points with his sharp knife towards the private rooms at the end of the pickle aisle.

About 30 minutes (I believe) of negotiations have ensued. The sound of Arabic music and the darkness of the stock room make me feel like I’m far away from home, like those tourists who mess up at the borders and get taken to foreign prisons. Mostafa is a mountain of a man, and although he exchanged the knife for a cigarette that seems to never end, he still comes across as very threatening. The shop boss comes from behind a coloured beaded room and wants to be updated.

“What’s wrong with you, grown man, trying to steal from my shop?” he says, measuring me from head all 6 feet down to my toes.

“Boss, look, as I explained to Mostafa. I can pay double, triple even.”  My hands join together, begging for understanding. “I’m really running against the clock here and desperate. My fiancée's parents are coming unexpectedly, and I need to win them with my cooking, you see…”

He raises his hand, instructing me to shut up.

“Hold up! Parents, huh? All this hassle for parents?” he asks, trying to assess the situation.

I raise my gaze from the floor and look him in the eyes. “Egyptian parents…”

Mostafa’s face drops, along with the cigarette. He places his hand on the boss’s shoulder and gives him a nod. Suddenly, they seem to pity me.

“Mashallah, brother, " the bossman says, his attitude shifting suddenly. “Here, take some pita with you too. Come back tomorrow with the money, yes? Mostafa, give him some spices; the boy needs them.”

Surprisingly, they let me go, and with a bag of goods, they escorted me to the door. The murmurs of the aunties and the rest of the shoppers surround me. “Egyptian,” one of them whispers to the other, whilst her face looks increasingly concerned. The boss man shakes my hand as I leave.

With everything gathered, I speed up home and stumble, walking on the pathway and rushing to return. I ring the doorbell, and the mother is waiting:

“Ah, no show on time for family, eh?” She kisses her teeth and makes disproving noises. “Come,” she says, allowing me to follow her back into my own home.

Yasmin stares at me in the hallway, whispering, “What took you so long?”. Her eyes are like daggers.

“Long story…” I tell her, hanging my coat and discharging my Crocs, “The bad news is I almost committed theft; the good news is I’m a local legend at Abu Zaad.” I reply, leaving her dumbfounded. She decides not to question it and just shrugs her head, pointing me to the kitchen where I am to perform my magic.

As I pass the living room, I can spot the mother and father patiently waiting to be served. I greet the father as I’m arranging my apron; he slightly nods, showing the minimum of acknowledgement. From the kitchen, I can hear them gossiping. Yasmin joins them, and before I shut the kitchen door to finish my cooking, I catch just enough of the conversation.

“Yasmin, baby, did I tell you about Omar, Munya’s son? He’s a doctor and just bought a new house in Alexandria, swimming pool surrounded by olive trees…”



That’s it. I’m driving all three to Heathrow Airport tomorrow, I know it. This whole run was a waste of thyme.