I hate food wastage but…
There’s a tuna curry in an airtight container in the fridge—so many airtight containers in the fridge!— and it’s more curry than tuna by today, its fourth day of existence. In the cool climes of its home on the middle shelf where all the leftovers are stored, it has split into layers. Beyond the shiny, jelly-like layer on top is where all the good stuff’s settled- a mixture of spices, coconut milk, and other various condiments, now indiscernible, of course. Now it’s just gravy.
Can’t throw that away, that’s the best part my mother would say to herself when clearing out the fridge, and later that day, she’d be mopping it up with bread for dinner. So many memories of us mopping up curry with bread, hoppers, and coconut roti for dinner. Always gravy. Always carbs. Sometimes, just curry and carbs, not a vegetable in sight. And butter. Lashes of it.
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I’m standing in front of my husband after a shower, my hands rubbing the upper portion of my belly. Then poking it, This is the part I need to reduce. It’s so hard. See? He makes a comment about visceral fat, and I, armed with the knowledge imparted via an Instagram reel, inform him that if it was visceral fat, it would be wrapped around my organs, and I wouldn’t be able to grab it. Like this, I demonstrate again, holding its chubby folds between my fingers.
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I take the tuna curry out and eye it with disgust. It’s been four days, and it’s probably not safe to eat now anyway. I empty the container into the bin.