Marriage is bittersweet like the onions my husband picks out of Turkish stew.

He calls the dish curry.

“Curry?! But it’s turlu, vegetable stew!” I told him the first time, taken aback. A recipe rich in garlic, tomato and veggies, without a hint of Indian spices. I was confused. He knew my culinary talent did not extend to Indian or Pakistani cuisine. Curry was the powder in the unopened jar in the pantry. A spice mix my father in law turned into delicious nihari a dish that tantalised the palate.

“We call all watery stews curry,” my husband clarified.

Each time I made it, we debated the identity of the dish, fluctuating between stew and curry until it acquired its new name. Turkish curry.

And off we went, feeling our way through the first year of marriage, ricocheting off life as it crashed into us like waves. We surfed the highs, we paddled, we floated. We merged languages and cultures, laughed, cried, screamed and sang, found ourselves and each other. We tried on our titles, husband and wife, and altered them to fit.

The first year of marriage was like a hearty Turkish curry. It left us wanting more.

 

 

 

 

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