Baltimore Halal Caterer
"She caters every Somali event in Baltimore—a thick ebony widow whose rice is legendary. When he orders food for his office, she delivers personally. Some deliveries come with extras."
Ladan's Catering feeds Baltimore's Somali community.
Every wedding, every funeral, every Eid—her rice has been there. She cooks like she's feeding her own children.
My office needs lunch for twenty.
"Somali food for Americans?" She sounds skeptical over the phone.
"My coworkers are adventurous."
"Ilaahay." She laughs. "Order the sampler. Let me convert them."
She delivers personally.
Fifty-five years old. Two hundred and fifty pounds of culinary authority. Ebony skin, apron under her coat, the confidence of someone who knows her food is perfect.
"Try the hilib ari first," she instructs my coworkers. "Then the rice. Then—"
They're already eating. Moaning. Converted.
"You're a genius," my boss says.
"I'm a cook." But she's beaming.
I order again the next week.
And the week after. My coworkers think I'm generous. The truth is I want to see her.
"You're my best customer," she says one delivery.
"You're my best discovery."
"Waas." She hands me containers. "I'm an old caterer."
"You're a master of your craft."
"Same thing." But she lingers.
"How did you start catering?"
She's at my office late, cleaning up after an evening event.
"My husband died. 2010. He was the cook—I just helped." She stacks containers. "Someone had to keep his recipes alive. So I did."
"That's beautiful."
"It's survival." She looks at me. "Beauty is luxury. Survival is all I've had time for."
"You have time now."
"For what?"
"For more than survival."
"Come to my kitchen."
It's where she creates everything. Commercial ovens, prep tables, the smell of spices.
"No one sees this place," she says. "This is where the magic happens."
"Why am I here?"
"Because you're the only person who's asked about the food, not just eaten it." She turns to face me. "Fourteen years of cooking for everyone. No one has cooked for me."
"Let me."
I cook for the caterer.
Badly. She laughs at my technique, corrects my mistakes, guides my hands on the spoon.
"Ilaahay—you're hopeless." But she's smiling.
"Then teach me."
"Some things can't be taught." She takes the spoon. "Some things have to be felt."
"Show me what you feel."
I worship the caterer.
In her kitchen that feeds hundreds. Her body is the feast—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly full of fourteen years of cooking.
"So long—" She gasps as I undress her. "I've fed everyone—"
"Tonight I feed you."
I lay her on the prep table.
Clean, floured, the surface where she creates magic. Her body is the main course.
I spread her thick thighs.
Taste her secret recipe.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—fourteen years of serving others finally being served. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I feast on her until she's satisfied. Three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—season me—"
I strip. She watches with those cook's eyes.
"Subhanallah—good ingredients."
"Fresh."
I push inside the caterer.
She screams.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I cook something new inside her.
Her massive body shakes on the prep table. She comes twice more.
"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Finish the dish—"
I release my seasoning.
We lie on the kitchen floor.
"My best recipe yet," she murmurs.
"I'll order again tomorrow."
"For food?"
"For everything."
One Year Later
My office is addicted to Ladan's cooking.
And I'm addicted to Ladan.
"Macaan," she moans in her kitchen after hours. "My best customer. My only love."
The caterer who feeds everyone.
The woman who finally let herself be full.
Best meal of my life.