cooking is rage, and it is everything inside of me.
I think about the days where I first started to learn,
and when I first started to learn her.
I hear that album by The National and it makes my stomach knot up.
Music in the kitchen was always something that was woven in between searing and braising; almost always with doing the dishes.
Romance. There’s romance there too. I’m mostly in love with every one, which means they all have the ability to break my heart with a reaction and with their spoons, digging into my side.
cooking is rage.
adult rage. love and doubt and sometimes divorce.
it is salty and fatty and exactly what you want after too many.
too many drinks or days or kids banging on your bathroom door when you just want to be alone for a moment.
More often than not it is given, and I give it all. I give my world and my peace of mind and stability so that you can have it.
I often wish I could dance. In fact I would give up a lot of my talent as a cook to have the energy and the attitude and the courage to dance in front of people.
But I suppose, if I’m being true to myself, whatever it is I do is its own little dance of time and heat and pressure. It goes straight into your belly and into your bones, and the bones of your children.
I am often alone. I crave a late night, at my table with a small plate of food and a person across from me that cooked it, and warmed it up for me because I was late to everything — to her — to our life — to bed, even when it’s been longer than we want to touch and breathe in deep and rest ourselves.
this is the rage.
the deep, fiery furnace-like thing in my belly that wants to have it all and wants you to have it all and in reality,
I have a day, and a day’s toils.
I clean my knives. I finish up the dishes.
There’s a few songs and a sweet picture of my nephew who’s growing up faster than I fall asleep…
after a long day, cooking and moaning, of drinking the salty broth,
I fall in love all over again.