Page 17 of If I Loved You Less
He and Shanzay will be well-suited.
Even though I am not close with Emad, for the past month and a half, I’ve been giving him gentle hints that he should look to get married, and he has responded quite ardently, which I am glad about.
I especially texted to make sure he was coming to Phuppo’s house for Thanksgiving dinner, and he sent back an enthusiastic three texts to inform me that he was.
Usually the Mirzas hosted Thanksgiving at my house, but that was back when Naadia, Phuppo, and I were a collective force. Now we’re all spread out, and since Phuppo did most of the cooking anyways, she’s taken over.
When we arrive in Phuppo’s street, the sky is darkening, and it’s nearly four o’clock. Zeeshan Uncle used to live in a luxury townhouse, but before getting married to Phuppo, they both chose a new house. It’s a bit smaller than ours, but still adequately big enough for hosting, and is quite quaint and lovely.
The outside door is decorated with a wreath. I ring the doorbell, Naadia huddled close to my side to ward off the chill. She’s wearing a thin suede jacket over her sweater, while I’m wearing my Loro Piana cape (not the one with the chinchilla fur around the collar and sleeves, I save that for more formal occasions), and the cashmere keeps me toasty as a bun in an oven.
A moment after we ring the bell, Phuppo throws open the door with a massive smile on her face. We squeal, hugging each other tight. I inhale her familiar scent of sweet rosemary, and my heart all but sighs from the comfort.
“Come in, come in!” Phuppo says.
“Phuppo! You lookamazing!” I scream, taking her in.
“Your hair! And Ilovethe suit!” Naadia chimes in.
“Oh, you girls,” she says, waving a hand, but I can tell she appreciates it. Her hair is cut short in layers and blown out, and she is a total babe in black shalwar kameez with gold details and red lipstick lining her lips.
“Will I be allowed into the house at some point this evening?” Papa asks from behind us, shaking his head at the commotion.
“Yes, sir, please, come in,” Zeeshan Uncle says, appearing at the door. Naadia and I giggle. It is so funny seeing Zeeshan Uncle be so flustered by Papa, who is unimpressed as ever and simply nods in response.
“I’ll take those,” Zeeshan Uncle says, reaching down to grab the bags of food we brought. We go inside, where the house is warm with the smell of cooking and candles. Zeeshan Uncle closes the door behind us, then holds out a hand to take Papa’s blazer, but Papa shakes his head.
“No, no, I’ll keep it on,” he says. Papa puts a hand on Phuppo’s head by greeting, smiling as he says, “Fizzu,” and then we all head further into the house.
No one else is here yet, so Naadia and I busy ourselves chatting Phuppo’s ear off as we all walk to the kitchen. The lights are on in all of the rooms, showing Phuppo and Zeeshan Uncle’s artful decorating of their home; the theme is very elegant and modern country, with botanical touches and wooden furniture, all finished with pale pink and sage green accents.
I’m practically buzzing with the excitement of having us all together again. It’s been a few weeks since we last all hung out.
“Ohmygod, everything looks sooo good,” Naadia says, when we enter the kitchen and see all the food set in chafing dishes.
“Truly amazing,” I agree.
“Aw, thank you,” Phuppo replies. “Now hopefully it tastes good, too. I still haven’t lived down that dense banana bread I made two years ago.”
Naadia and I laugh. “Papa literally still brings it up,” Naadia says.
“Everytime I’m making banana bread, he says, ‘And make sure you add baking soda! Not like that time Fizzu made it!’”
“One time!” Phuppo laments. “One time I forget the baking soda, and I have to hear about it forever.”
We look at all the food Phuppo has prepared. She’s made typical American food like roast chickens (no Pakistani likes turkey), mashed potatoes, steamed vegetables, stuffed shells, mac & cheese, and then also typical Pakistani food like gosht biryani, chicken karahi, and aloo palak. Dessert has the same treatment: pies for American and ras malai for Pakistani.
We’re fine eating American food, but since Thanksgiving dinner includes all of our family that lives a drivable distance away, Phuppo made Pakistani food too.
Papa is one of six siblings. Starting from the eldest, it’s Papa’s one brother, my taya (who lives in Pakistan), then Shahnaz Phuppo (who also lives in Pakistan), Noor Phuppo, Zaineb Phuppo, Mahum Phuppo, then Papa, and lastly Phuppo, who’s name is really Faiza.
All my phuppos (except one) live on Long Island or in the city, so they’re pretty close by. They’re all grandmothers, their sons married with two to four children a piece, and when we are all together, it quickly becomes a madhouse.
As it does about an hour later, when all the other guests have arrived. (No Rizwan, yet, but I am still holding out hope.) Zeeshan Uncle has invited some of his friends as well, so the house is truly packed.
The little kids run around, screaming, while the uncles (plus Fawad – he really is an honorary uncle) are debating politics and the merits and flaws of Imran Khan (who used to be our neighbor in Islamabad! My Dadi was friends with Jemima). My phuppos are comparing daughters-in-law, while said daughters-in-law are discussing the chaos of their children.
My bhabis are really nice, but I’m not very close with them. Naadia sits and chats with them, now part of the married club, so I amble around, trying to find Emad.
