“I’m sure,” I say. “I prefer to interview people who aren’t dying to be on camera. Gives it that touch of authenticity.” And I almost wink but stop myself from being a cheesy flirt.
“Well then.” She tucks a curly lock of hair behind her ear and smiles at me, and I’m wobbly, having trouble navigating her to the spot I’ve picked out for interviews.She’s not straight, oh my God, and you’re about to interview her. Don’t say anything stupid.I bash my hip bone into a counter and pretend it doesn’t hurt and isn’t going to leave a bruise.
I hand her the little mic instead of clipping it to her dress because that’s too close, and I’m afraid of being too close. I don’t trust myself.
She’s hovering, ready for me. I wish I had that type of devil-may-care vibe that’d let me ask, “So, the world wants to know, are you single?” and have it come off as charming instead of creepy.
The smells of roasted eggplant and chopped parsley pull me out of hypothetical fantasyland. Mustering up my confidence and nonregional diction, I ask, “Ms. Minassian, can you tell us about why you decided to put together this event?”
My first couple of words shock her into a smile, and I hope it’s because she enjoyed hearing me turn on reporter-mode Nar. Or calling her by her last name. She clasps her hands together and leans slightly toward me. “We knew when we were organizing Explore Armenia that we needed to include an event centering around food. Food is a basic necessity, but it can also be art; identity. It can even be resistance. With the Armenian diaspora so fractured, Armenian food means different things to different people, but we wanted to share this slice of our food culture with the ‘new generations,’ so to speak.”
The way she puts her words together, so collected and all withthis chill twinkle, I know I am a goner. I ask her more, and she speaks, and every time I get to stand back and listen to her it feels like I’m invited into a private reception of two. The chatter of the kitchen is muffled, and I hear only her words and I wish we could go back and forth for many more hours. Honestly, I interview her a bit longer than I need to, and I’d normally say this would be a pain to review and edit, but somehow I don’t think rewatching Erebuni is going to be a bad thing in my life.
I tell her I’ve got what I need. She says, “Are you sure? I don’t mind redoing any of the questions. Whatever helps you. I may have slipped up when I was talking about Vartouhi’s background. I slurred a couple words while I was trying to remember the name of her side business.”
I shake my head. “No, you were perfect.” And I wonder if she can hear the humming of my heart.
When she heads back to her station to catch up on the next dish, I figure it’s a good time to shoot my stand-ups, essentially selfie interviews, which I wrote over the last couple of days. My tripod’s already set up, and I tack the printed words to the stand. I click “Record,” take my spot, and feel a light one-two tap on my shoulder. It’s Kiki. Looking miffed with undertones of haughty.
“Are you the reporter?”
Okay, super rude. But I’ll give her a chance, maybe she has a good reason to address me like an object. “Nareh Bedrossian.” I extend my hand. “And yes, I’m from KTVA News.”
She gives me a huge fake smile. “I’m not sure if you heard, but I’m the chairwoman of Explore Armenia. I’m ready to be interviewed.”
“Oh, uh. Of course.”
“I see you interviewed Erebuni.”
That’s definitely sniveling in her voice, and all that benefit of the doubt is gone; I am not a fan of Miss Kiki. “Yes.” And I’m about to say, “Yes, because Erebuni is the whole reason this event is getting any press,” but I feel like that would piss her off a tad too much and she might toss me out. So instead I say, “Right. She’s been my contact and has helped me put together details for the story.”
“Hmm. Next time you need details, come to me. She has strange ideas about some things, and I am afraid she might not always represent the Armenian community well.”
My face is getting hot, and my peripheral vision is closing in. I’m feeling extremely possessive of my new friend. I want to say something rude to Kiki so, so badly, but I don’t speak, hoping my anger can subside. I think,Meditations, what did I learn?I’m at the bottom of a deep ocean, watching this scene happening above the water. Yeah, and I want to drag this bitch down with me.Nar, don’t say bitch in that context; it’s sexist.
Kiki asks, “Did she say anything about...?”
And leaves the question open and I’m not about to play fill in the blank with her, so I just stare, questioning her right back.
“I guess not.” Then she snaps back into her rigid conceitedness. “All right. Ask me your questions.”
I decide then and there I’m not including a second of what she says, unless I can find something to make her look bad so subtly she won’t notice. When I ask her some of the same questions I asked Erebuni, Kiki spits back the insipid version of what Erebuni said. Worse, at one point she mentions how important it is for women in particular to learn this art so their children can eat Armenian food. I mean, yikes.
After Kiki is satisfied with the amount of blathering she’sdone, she asks, “Are we done here?” I smile meanly and tell her she’s free to go, which I hope annoys her.
I shake myself off from the haze of arrogance and stupidity Kiki left behind, then film my stand-ups. Once they’re done, I head back over to see what the gang’s up to.
Everyone’s on kuftes now, rolling them and sliding their trays into the oven. Erebuni waves me over. “Do you want to help? I’m a little behind and could use an extra hand.”
I suppress making dirty “extra hand” jokes, even in my mind (only somewhat successfully). “Definitely,” I tell her.
Several groups of people have already popped their kuftes into various ovens, and the warm smell of spices is rising in the air. I wash my hands and sink my fingers into the kufte’s outer layer, wet and squishy. Erebuni’s fingers are long, stately. The way she rolls with tenderness... A hot jolt passes through me.
We don’t talk for a bit, and I must be giving off weird vibes to her. Too stiff. Like, now that I know I might have a shot at something with Erebuni (I don’t want to think too much about what that something is), that makes everything scary. Real. Plus, Erebuni doesn’t know thatIlike women, too. I don’t need to do a quick self-assessment to know that I read as super-duper straight. And, let’s be real, a basic bitch. My hair is long past my shoulders, styled and sleek and very conventional. She’s seen me in two dresses (and on the news, a million more dresses). My makeup is fairly heavy, not caked on, but I’m used to applying TV layers. I wear a lot of eyeliner. I have a variety of liquid matte lipsticks and berry lip glosses. I talk like a valley girl and drive a Honda Civic (at least it’s not a white Jetta). I need a rainbow pin on my bag or something or she’s never going to get the hint. I don’t know why, but I want to immediately convey to her that we play for the sameteam (or at least that I play for both—no allegiances—and I’d be happy to play on hers any time).
It is June. I could mention... “June is Pride month,” I blurt out.
Erebuni’s fingers stop moving. She’s still.
