Flying aubergines
I had never before looked at a pair of eggplants as a tool, until the day my mother used them as a weapon. It was Sunday afternoon, lunch time, and neither one of us was in the mood. The kitchen is a despised place in our home; a laboratory in a house full of books; a pottery studio for useless hands. And yet, there it sits, always waiting for the next meal to be conjured. And we reluctantly comply. But you know what doesn’t help? August in Barcelona. So, there sat two perfectly plump eggplants on top of the fruit bowl, begging to be eaten once and for all. My mother finally dragged herself out of the office chair and onto the tiled floor at around 2pm and rummaged in the fridge to cool off and come up with a meal. The sound of ruffling travelled across the hall and into my room, and I became aware of my stomach's growls. A glance at the time, and hangryness established itself. Sigh. Before coming out into the living room, I held on to the door frame and stretched. Ready for