I missed being the queen of my own kitchen. For a month, we shared a house in Pebble Creek with two of Tom’s older sisters. Bless their hearts, they always had ideas for groceries and dinners. By the time I thought of starting to plan a meal, those two ladies had already figured out what to cook, what ingredients we needed, and when the meat needed to be thawed. Bless their hearts, bless their hearts. Over time, I gradually assumed the role of the pleasant but dim-witted sister-in-law whose main responsibilities included setting the table and unloading the dishwasher.
The kitchen in our rental home was state-of-the-art. The gas stove included a convection oven; the microwave had buttons that all but launched dinner to Saturn. The refrigerator had filtered water, crushed ice, cubed ice, ice from Antarctica, ice from the North Pole—all at the touch of a screen. There were two machines on the counter that I never even touched because I was afraid of them: one machine could pulverize a human body in 3.2 seconds (much like the wood chipper in Fargo), and the other would brew exotically named coffee, one tiny cup at a time, at the cost of $14.82 a cup.
The kitchen in our Pebble Creek house had some kind of glass-block windows located up by the ceiling that kept the kitchen in constant twilight unless the overhead lights were on. The walls were painted a Type-O-Blood-Red that absorbed all natural light, all designed to keep out July’s 120-degree Phoenix heat.
When I came back home to Alexandria on Friday, the first thing I noticed was how light our kitchen was. We have two large south-facing windows that flood sunlight through the entire room. The second thing I noticed was that when it was dinner time, I got to decide, all by myself, what to make. The first night, I made home-made clam chowder. The second night , I made turkey tenderloins with brown rice and broccoli. Tonight I’m stirring up a huge, golden pot of chicken curry, and it smells wonderful. The neighbor dogs are all hanging around, especially the Pakistani herd dogs that live down the street.
The kitchen in our rental home was state-of-the-art. The gas stove included a convection oven; the microwave had buttons that all but launched dinner to Saturn. The refrigerator had filtered water, crushed ice, cubed ice, ice from Antarctica, ice from the North Pole—all at the touch of a screen. There were two machines on the counter that I never even touched because I was afraid of them: one machine could pulverize a human body in 3.2 seconds (much like the wood chipper in Fargo), and the other would brew exotically named coffee, one tiny cup at a time, at the cost of $14.82 a cup.
The kitchen in our Pebble Creek house had some kind of glass-block windows located up by the ceiling that kept the kitchen in constant twilight unless the overhead lights were on. The walls were painted a Type-O-Blood-Red that absorbed all natural light, all designed to keep out July’s 120-degree Phoenix heat.
When I came back home to Alexandria on Friday, the first thing I noticed was how light our kitchen was. We have two large south-facing windows that flood sunlight through the entire room. The second thing I noticed was that when it was dinner time, I got to decide, all by myself, what to make. The first night, I made home-made clam chowder. The second night , I made turkey tenderloins with brown rice and broccoli. Tonight I’m stirring up a huge, golden pot of chicken curry, and it smells wonderful. The neighbor dogs are all hanging around, especially the Pakistani herd dogs that live down the street.
Tonight’s Chicken Curry
I don’t have to consult with anyone. I am once again the master of my own kitchen, the queen of my domain. It doesn’t even matter that there’s snow in the yard. I’ve got my kitchen back.
1 comment:
well said. there are few comforts like the familiarity and security of your own kitchen!
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