Slice of Life 2019: Day 8
There are days that I know people like me around here because I’m cooking. Mostly, I’m okay with this. I make food and people eat my food and they are happy. It’s a simple concept.
As the cook, people know where to find me most evenings, between 5:30 – 7:30. That’s fine too; otherwise I’d be lost somewhere around the house. If a friend comes over, they know that between 5:30 – 7:30 pm, I’m going to be in the kitchen. Basically, all my friends know this and they just come into the kitchen with me. My neighbor, Susan, when she comes over between 5:30 – 7:30, she usually just rolls up her sleeves and jumps right in. She used to hold the baby for me while I worked the spatula. Now, she just grabs a wooden spoon and starts stirring. That’s probably because she feels bad that I’m slaving it out at the stove while she’s sitting.
Occasionally, my husband will venture into the kitchen and bark a few orders which gets me a little prickly because this is my kitchen, dang it! I’ve got too much identity caught up here to let outsiders come in and start pushing me around. Yes, it’s messy. Yes, it could be more efficient. But, I’ve got this! When I’m cooking on all four burners, got the double timers going, all the counters filled with ingredients and spices and knives, that’s when I’m happiest. The kitchen is my zone; I’m the boss here! It’s one of the few places where I get to call the shots. In every other place, I have to answer to somebody.
If I’m serving food, the kids will stop by the kitchen and give me a hug. “Thanks mom!” are those magical words that let’s you know someone’s paying attention that you’re putting food in their belly. When my hubby walks in the door and smells yummy meats cooking, he walks right over and gives me a big hug, a smile all over his face. Earlier this week, I met my husband at the door and told him dinner was on the island and there was a fire made in the other room and all he had to do was just relax after a busy day.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about!” he said happy as a lark.
So, yeah, this is old school and super traditional and patriarchal. I cook therefore I am … loved and appreciated and respected. Alright! Maybe I would still be loved if I didn’t cook, but it really does help with the respect and the appreciation. In the kitchen, I get hugs, I fill the tummies of hungry boys and I get smiles. All good things!