I am writing at the moment to put off filling the kitchen with love.
To explain this admittedly inscrutable statement, I will begin with an observation: It is very nearly a cosmic impossibility for neat, organized, punctual types to attract each other. Equally, those who view time as an outmoded construct and order a tyrannical impediment to genius seem doomed to pass one another in the night. They bounce along like negatively-charged ions until the electrostatic force of romantic attraction sends them careering straight into the arms of neat-freaks with checklists and schedules for Saturday.
Such is the situation here in Michigan. While neither Don or I go to extremes (he’s not a hoarder and gets to work on time; I sometimes throw clothes on the bed and am late for church), the general rule of the universe applies.
I’m also a terrible cook.
We decided in the first weeks to lean into our strengths. “You cook,” I said. “I’ll clean.” And boy does he cook! First of all, it’s SO GOOD, and I love it. I’ve had stuffed cabbage and scallops on a bed of angel hair pasta and perfectly grilled steak and a full English breakfast, and — well, I could go on.
Every night, Don says, “What do you want for dinner?
One night, I said, (as a joke) “savory crepes” and Don said, “OK!”
Single Sarah often ate cereal for dinner; life has demonstrably improved.
Second of all, he puts his whole soul into the process. Why use one bowl when you can use eight? Why stick to one meal when you can make three at a time? If the onion peels and the whipped cream, the egg shells and the tzatziki sauce combine in Pollack-esque swirls and slashes across the counter (or walls), how much more testament is it to the ecstasy of the artistic process?
At first, my brain processed this as “Mess.”
This was unsatisfactory. How could I possibly enjoy the SO GOOD food if my brain was whispering, “hey there’s a mess over there!”? I tried telling my brain to “shut up already, we’re finally getting nutrition,” but brains in general do not respond well to authoritarianism. Then I hit upon the solution, or, rather, a truth.
He wasn’t filling the kitchen with Mess; he was filling with Love. “Brain!” I now say, “Look at all this love!”
“It’s lovely,” my brain says. “Now, let’s fill it back up with OUR kind of love.” Our kind of love manifests as glowing, ammonia-scrubbed counter tops, a sparkling sink, and the satisfied burbles of a neatly-packed dishwasher.
Isn’t that a wonderful situation? The kitchen, heart of the home, fed continually by veins of love, flowing in…
The dogs just leapt off the couch and are barking madly. A car door slammed in the driveway. Don’s home. I bet you anything he’ll cook dinner. He always does! Isn’t he great? Good thing I didn’t waste the whole evening writing and made sure to clean — um…er…well, shoot. Sorry to cut this one short, folks. I’ve got something I gotta do.
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