O-Bento Lunch

The last time I ate here was with the Man, and that meal ended with a theft.  I wasn't sure if Tombo was pet-friendly- I suspect most Asian places aren't.  I thought I'd just wander in and find out.  Barriers are immediately broken down when the staff assume one is Japanese as well.

This is my favorite hole-in-the wall in South Kensington.  Tombo gets busy, the food is akin to no-frills, straight-forward home-cooking.  The menu is short, but has stuff I like to eat.

Bruno happily shares a bit of rice, then promptly falls asleep.

                                                            Tombo, 29 Thurloe Place

Tuesday: Love, Box-ed Up

Bruno and I visit Popo this afternoon.  I love the easy banter and silences that unfold as we sit together.  My grandmother is a very expressive woman.  She holds my hand, kisses me, tells me to take care of myself.  She chirps like a little bird at Bruno.

Outside the sky is ghostly orange, then dark grey.  The faint sound of thunder is heard.

U-jan, my grandmother says in Malay.  Ia akan hujan.
Rain.  It is going to rain.

Bruno is exploring Popo's kitchen.  How I love the tiles of the kitchen floor, cool to the touch, and rough with memories of homework at the dining table, hair being braided for school, hide-and-seek with cousinS, and always the pungent, sweet smell of rempah pounded and then fried up.

At 4pm, Popo insists on seeing me out her house, takes unsteady, determined steps down her driveway, and waits for me at my car.  There is an unexpected sadness rising like a tenacious tide, claiming.

What are you cooking tonight?  Popo asks me.

I twist the key to get the engine started.  I think of last night's bento dinner prepared, and will the tears away.  I wave and smile at my grandmother.

Buta no Shoga Yaki.

I think, this is how it feels- Love, box-ed up.