Calgary Oilfield Cook
"She cooks for oilfield workers in Fort McMurray—a thick ebony Somali widow who feeds hungry men. When he starts working the rigs, her food becomes his reason to come back. Some meals are served in private."
Camp 47 has the best food in Fort McMurray.
Everyone says so. And everyone knows why—Asho, the Somali cook who's been feeding oil workers for twelve years.
I'm new to the rigs.
"First rotation?" She fills my plate. Fifty-three years old. Two hundred and fifty pounds of kitchen command. Ebony skin, apron stained with the day's work, the warmth of someone who feeds bodies and souls.
"That obvious?"
"You still look hopeful." She adds extra meat. "Eat. The work is hard. You'll need it."
Her food keeps me going.
Twelve-hour shifts in the cold, brutal work, exhaustion that seeps into bones. But every meal, Asho is there with food that tastes like home.
"How did you end up here?" I ask one night.
"My husband worked the rigs. Died in an accident—2012." She keeps serving. "The company offered me his job. I took it."
"You stayed? After that?"
"Where else would I go? This is where his memory lives." She meets my eyes. "And someone has to feed you boys."
I start helping in the kitchen.
After shifts, when I can't sleep. She lets me peel vegetables, wash dishes, listen to her stories.
"You're different," she says one night.
"How?"
"Most men here are running from something. You seem like you're running toward something."
"I don't know what I'm running toward."
"Maybe that's why you're here." She hands me a knife. "Chop these onions. Let the tears out."
"Ten years since my husband."
We're alone in the kitchen. The camp sleeps.
"Ten years of cooking for hundreds of men. None of them see me as a woman. I'm just the cook."
"I see you."
"Waas." She scrubs a pot. "You're young. You should be chasing girls in Calgary."
"I'd rather be here. With you."
She stops scrubbing.
"You don't know what you're saying."
"I know exactly what I'm saying."
"Come to my room."
Staff quarters. Small but private. The only place in camp that's hers.
"No one comes here," she says. "No one even asks."
"I'm asking."
"Wallahi?"
"Wallahi."
I worship the oilfield cook.
Her body has nourished thousands. Now I nourish her.
"Ten years—" She gasps as I undress her. "Ten years of feeding—"
"Tonight I feast on you."
Her body is abundance.
Ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly. The warmth of her kitchen made flesh.
I spread her thick thighs.
Taste her special recipe.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—ten years of isolation breaking. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I consume her pleasure until she's satisfied. Three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—fill me—"
I strip. She watches with those kitchen eyes.
"Subhanallah—"
"All natural ingredients."
I push inside the cook.
She screams.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I serve her everything.
Her massive body shakes. Alberta cold outside, but we're burning.
"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Season me—"
I release inside her.
We lie in her narrow bed.
"You'll go back to Calgary," she murmurs.
"And then I'll come back here."
"For the money?"
"For you."
One Year Later
Every rotation, same routine.
Work the rigs. Eat Asho's food. End up in her bed.
"Macaan," she moans. "My favorite worker."
The cook who feeds the hungry.
The woman I'm hungry for.
Camp love.