In the dense, shadowed embrace of Ravenwood Forest, my brother and I found ourselves alone, the comforting presence of our parents swallowed by the thick foliage. Panic set in as we called out, our voices lost amongst the ancient trees. We had stopped for a rest on our way to Port Haven, our family’s caravan laden with goods for trade, when a sudden rustle in the underbrush had drawn our curiosity, leading us astray.
I could feel the fear of never seeing our parents again seeping slowly into my heart as the last of the light dimmed through the forest canopy. Evin gripped my hand firmly as we carefully made our teary way through brush and leaf, searching for sign of open road or family. That’s when they appeared—men with cruel eyes and harsh whispers, brigands who saw in us an opportunity for ransom. We were helpless to their force, our cries muffled, our spirits lost.
Conner’s mom was busy at the stove, with three pots boiling and a wooden spoon stirring something brown and thick in a small saucepan. The kitchen was a symphony of aromas, with the rich, earthy scent of spices mingling with the tangy sweetness of tomatoes simmering away. Today, she was preparing a feast, but not just any feast. Today, she was tackling the ambitious task of making the perfect eggplant parmigiana, a dish that had eluded her culinary grasp for years.
Conner, on the other hand, was far less interested in the culinary arts. He was sprawled on the living room floor, engrossed in a book, the sounds of his mother’s cooking a comforting background noise to his adventures. However, today was different. Today, his mother had enlisted his help for her culinary quest, and he knew better than to think he could escape the duties of being her sous-chef.
This is a response paper for the article “A Jazzography: From Storyville to Lincoln Center”.
