My daughter is reading to me.
She’s excited and she’s talking really
quickly.
She’s talking in French; she was born in
France and it flows out of her unhindered and effortlessly.
I am listening.
But I am cooking.
I am trying to make an asparagus risotto;
with one hand and an elbow I am trying to stir rice so it doesn’t stick, with
the other hand I am using the blender and my eyes are divided between the
asparagus tips that I must prevent from boiling too long in the saucepan of
steaming water and the clock behind me that tells me when this is so. My feet
are occupied with the cat who apparently needs attention.
The recipe is Italian.
I am English.
My daughter is reading to me in French.
She is reading fast, words are raining down
on me and my asparagus.
She is reading from the advanced studies
edition of ‘Philosophy for those about to do their exams”.
I hear occasional things I recognise as
language; Hobbes, Marx, State, Negation, Power, Individualism.
The rest is just risotto.
Then she stops.
I look up.
I realise she has asked me a question.
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