We Used To Eat Hummus On Sundays
The heaviness of January was overturned by the excitement of moving into our first flat. One-bed, above a kebab shop. Peeling wallpaper revealing black mould, failed double glazing. A gally kitchen too small to contain a toaster and a microwave, but at least you could cook alone in peace. Our parents disapproved and we knew we would never host dinner parties. But we were blinded by the romance of cohabitation, of having finally escaped the vicious cycle of house-shares. The thrill and terror of giving up most of my savings for the deposit overshadowed the inevitability of our freshly washed clothes taking three working days to dry properly, and the bathroom never looking clean even after an hour of scrubbing with thick bleach. I hung up art that you hated to cover the cracks in our bedroom walls and you started collecting spider plants despite my allergies.
When spring came, we bought road bikes to force ourselves to find a habit in exercise. It worked, a surprise to all. We weren’t serious, Lycra-wearing millennial cyclists. We savoured each forest path and narrow one-way road, faces chasing the wind like dogs. You, further committing to what you called ‘amateur horticulture’, would stop to take pictures of the magnolia and snowdrops, and shout “wild garlic!” as we rode through its heady scent. Sometimes, we’d find a pub for a quick half pint – IPA for you, lager for me. I’d get a packet of salt and vinegar crisps and let you pick at them because I knew you preferred to share.
Then came an April of consistently bad weather, and our pattern of blissful mundanity shifted. One Sunday, a storm hit, but we felt too confined in our tin can flat to stay inside. We set off during light drizzle, which quickly turned into a thick, unforgiving downpour. We took several wrong turnings along one of our usual routes. You shouted at me three times for being too slow up the hills; I called you an immature arsehole and pushed you into a muddy patch of stinging nettles. It took far too long to get halfway to our favourite pub, both too stubborn to admit defeat and suggest we turn back, or get the bus.
Eventually, we reached the top of a hill neither of us recognised. Lost, drenched, starving, not speaking. You kept scratching your legs from the nettles. I found this infuriating, despite being to blame. To our right, the river roared, swollen and violent. But then, there it was, about fifty yards away – a small tudor-style building, wedged between two large cottages, its front windows glowing with yellow light. A black sign stood on the cobbles outside, dripping wet, Rio’s Deli – hot drinks, pies and cakes, fresh local produce just about still legible on the front. Its presence would’ve felt almost holy, had we not squabbled like siblings for the past two hours. I turned to you, expectantly. The heavy scowl above my eyes slackened slightly. You ignored me and pushed yourself off down the road, heading straight for the fence opposite Rio’s to lock up. I followed, a strange mixture of abandonment and relief rising inside me. I braked hard next to you and peeled myself off my bicycle, exhausted and dying for a cup of tea. The wind swallowed the silence as we walked towards the low-slung door of Rio’s.
A bell rang above our heads as we entered, announcing our underwhelming arrival. I pulled a wet, gluey strand of hair from my face and took off my hood, letting my eyes adjust to the artificial light. Rio’s was small, but packed full of spring vegetables, jars of amber honey and plum chutney, plant and goat milk coexisting with innocent irony. A counter to the left displayed bulging pasties and steak pies, golden scones and bejewelled empire biscuits. My stomach groaned with hunger, but my eyes burned with despair as they scanned the extortionate prices written in black pen across the glass.
“Not the best day for cycling!”
A woman wearing an alarming amount of crochet beamed at us from behind the till. No shit, I thought, and offered her a polite chuckle in return. You gave a quick, kind glance in her direction, before walking ahead to study the contents of the refrigerated section. I pretended to be interested in the gluten free pasta range, avoiding any further attempts at conversation.
“We make that in-house”, piped up crochet woman. I looked up – you were holding a small tub of hummus. You glanced at me, offering a vague expression that I deciphered as, ‘will this do?’
My mouth watered. I nodded. “Got the last of the Doritos in my bag”, I offered, thanking my past self for bringing my waterproof backpack.
You turned to grab a large white baguette from a basket behind you, before noticing the price and picking up one half the size instead. You placed our measly haul onto the counter and fumbled in your pocket for your debit card. Crochet woman tutted.
“It’s £10 minimum on card”, she said, pityingly. The room began to sink.
“How about two teas to warm you both up a bit?”, she asked, pointing to the limited hot drinks menu above her head and giving me a knowing look. It was only then that I noticed her name badge – Sandra, it read, in italics.
“The storm’s not set to die down for a while yet, so you’ll need it if you’re cycling on”, she continued. You looked back at me, face hard as stone.
“I’d love a tea, thanks”, I replied, relieved someone else had proffered the idea. “Milk, no sugar”.
Sandra nodded as she tapped away at the cash register. You kept looking at me, cogs turning. I wondered if you had a headache coming. The tapping stopped, your cue.
“I’d prefer a coffee, please. Black”, you said, finally, turning your head back to face Sandra, who was now smiling manically. She charged you a small fortune for what I knew we could have gotten for a few quid at the little Tesco round the corner from our flat. I made a mental note never to bring this up.
“We’ve got a few tables out the back. Why don’t you go and sit there and I’ll bring you your drinks in just a tick. Only got paper cups, I’m afraid.”
There was no question of taking refuge in the small enclosed courtyard where three wooden tables had been squeezed, each surrounded by upcycled metal chairs and adorned with a tiny empty vase. We huddled over our drinks, letting our fingers thaw. Frozen water dripped down my back, making me shiver. You pulled out the bread and handed me the hummus to open. We tore and dunked and stuffed our mouths mechanically, as if stocking up for winter. Our bodies began to soften, warming to each other’s company again. It was then that I noticed what I was eating. The hummus – smooth, no lumps, thick yet incredibly light, tinged with lemon. It was quite possibly the best hummus I had ever tasted. Our eyes met and I knew you felt the same. I spotted Sandra in the corner, watching, smiling. Something mended within me. Somehow, I knew we would make it home, all forgiven, carried by our fullness.
Weeks passed, bookmarked by our new Sunday ritual of cycling to Rio’s. We’d learned our lesson to check the weather thoroughly beforehand and pack a little cash. Rio’s was never busy, Sandra was always on shift. There was always one tub of hummus left.
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I lost count of the weekends until one Sunday bled through our IKEA curtains like an open wound. The August light had let me down; it did not match my October mood.
I pretended not to listen to you get up to use the bathroom or pull fresh towels from the cupboard. After some time, the kettle clicked and you came back to bed with a coffee. You were a loud sipper.
You said, “We should go to Rio’s today.”
My stomach growled, betraying my silence. “I need a tea first”, I said, unmoving.
August had saved its best day until then. Warm, calm, cerulean blue. The wind kissed my cheeks, forgiving my blotchy skin. We took our time down the forest paths and stopped for water in the shade of a copse. Your nose had turned pink; I slipped a bottle of suncream in your backpack before we set off again, ignoring your knowing look.
We stopped again at the top of the hill where we could look down at Rio’s. You turned to me.
“Did you bring the Doritos?”, you asked, shielding your eyes from the sun. I nodded. I knew you’d seen me pack them before we left.
We walked our bikes down to a patch of grass just past Rio’s, next to the river. It was full, but calm. Glistening. You waited there whilst I went inside to get our usuals.
“Hello love!” beamed Sandra. She was wearing a pink and green crochet vest I’d not seen before. It suited her.
“You’ve come at the perfect time – we’ve just refilled the fridge.”
I grabbed two pots of hummus and handed Sandra a tenner. “Keep the change”, I said with sincerity. She held the note for a moment, a light frown forming above her eyes. I suddenly felt hot, claustrophobic.
“That’s very kind, thank you”, she said, slowly. I went to leave as she folded the note into the till.
“It’s always nice to see you both” she called as I opened the door. I turned to her, something breaking within me. “You too”, I returned, closing the door gently on my way out.
You had already tucked into the Doritos and were throwing pebbles into the river as I walked down to join you on the grass. I held out the hummus to you – one pot in each hand. “Left, or right?”, I asked, cringing at my pitiful attempt to be playful.
“Which one has Sandra poisoned?”, you replied with your mouth half full. Manners, I heard my mother whisper. There was a smudge of black grease on your cheek.
“Now that would be telling.”
I handed you one pot and shoved the other in my backpack for later. You shifted slightly to let me sit in the sunnier spot. I placed the pot of hummus between us. For once, I wasn’t hungry. You pulled a baguette from your bag, bought from Tesco the day before. I ripped off a chunk and pulled it apart. It stuck to the roof of my mouth, melting back into dough as I chewed. The hummus tasted of everything and nothing all at once. I noticed we were both rationing it, neither taking great scoops as normal.
Picking up the pot to examine the ingredients, you said “does it taste different to you today?”
“No, just as good as always”, I lied.
We ate away the time. I popped my last piece of crust into my mouth and brushed my hands of crumbs. A patch of white skin blinked underneath my wedding ring as I flexed my fingers. It was rare for me to tan, but the summer sun had been good to me that year. My mind pressed play on an episode of 24 Hours in A&E we’d watched recently – a man had his wedding ring cut off with plyers so they could save his mangled finger. I wondered if anyone else actually watched 24 Hours in A&E as religiously as us, or whether it’s generally considered to be filler TV, background noise, something the elderly can fall asleep to. I wondered if I should audit our mutual likes and dislikes for some as yet undetermined purpose.
You were still eating, breathing deeply between mouthfuls. Chin lifted to drink in the August heat. Then, suddenly, “I’m so glad we found this place.”
I replied with nothing. My ribs felt too small for my lungs. I closed my eyes, willing numbness to return.
The sun disappeared behind a cloud and I noticed you’d stopped eating. The pot of hummus was half empty. Perhaps neither us had been very hungry. You began to pick at the grass by your ankles. I watched your fingers work and imagined a childhood of summers spent outdoors, muddy legs and dirty fingernails. You looked at me, searching my face for something.
“Guess you don’t still want to get a cat, then?”, you asked.
I laughed, weakly. I’d sent you several links to cat shelters over the past year. You were a fierce dog lover and refused to see anything else as a suitable compromise.
“I might still get one”, I replied. It felt good to defy you. You didn’t protest, a relenting expression concluding the conversation.
Hours of minutes passed. Bald patches of earth appeared at your feet. My nose began to burn, despite the factor 50 I’d applied earlier. It felt good. You took this as an opportunity to call time to head home.
“Do you want to play scrabble later?”
I told you I did.
I thought the cycle home might feel filmic. Instead, I was removed, flying above, watching two people who had left the best of themselves behind. The route was two-dimensional, we knew it all too well.
After what might have been seconds, minutes, or days, we carried our bikes into our cramped hallway of our little flat. Silence settled as we unlaced our shoes. I took the two pots of hummus from my bag and opened the fridge. I checked the use-by date of the unopened pot – five days away. The hourglass had been turned.
“Tea?” you asked eventually.
“Go on then” I sighed, closing the fridge.
Beth Punnett (she/they) is a poet based in North London. They write best when out walking, when memories are sharp and it's just them and their notes app. You can find them on Instagram - @poetbeth