In the last four months, I’ve been given the opportunity and free range to create in the kitchen, something I’ve been doing since childhood, but allowed the urge to lay dormant for many years. In that time, I have moved many places and had many roommates, who were excellent cooks. I’ve learned much from them and from my own experiences: pairing foods and drinks, overcoming burnt episodes, and so much more that can only be smelled, tasted, and seen. Slowly, I have come in to my own, as a cook and baker.
So, here I am, home, where God has called me, making homemade meals for someone who has lived alone for many years. When I arrived, the octave in the kitchen broke years of silence. If I make a meal without her asking, “what’s going on in there?” I know I have been too quiet, yet I can’t help but smile at her comment and joke with her about the loudness.
Daily, I am eager to hear the echo of unearthing pans from other pans, pull utensils from drawers, open creaking cabinets, chop fruits and vegetables on the cutting board (my favorite kitchen item), open packages and tubs full of ingredients, and dust off dormancy from kitchen tools just for minutes of flowing creativity that will end up devoured. All that will be left is an accidental scrape of metal on a dirty plate and glancing eyes wondering if it would be too rude to lick the plate.