She comes home every day and asks what I’d like for dinner. In reflection, I see the question as the perfect metaphor for power. She is willing to prepare me whatever I ask for. If I mention something in passing, lasagna, or chicken pot pie, or scones, she’ll make it. She works longer, more stressful days than I do, and nevertheless unwinds in the kitchen, barefoot, chopping away. It’s the most curious spin on my childhood that I’ve ever experienced. I make her a drink and then am sent away to write, or play guitar, or hang with the kid.
Her food is like a spell. The house rich with it. I grew up with masterful cooks. Precision cooks. She isn’t precise, or timely. Her meals are strangely European. Hearty. Comforting. Dynamic. Food is a service, but it’s also an expression. I don’t think she could cook dinner for me if I’d upset her. What I suspect is this: her meals are an interpretation of desire, a balance of offering and appetite, and they reward both of us. What she doesn’t know is that I stay as close to the kitchen door as possible, to be infused with the sounds and smells. It isn’t just the sexual aspect that draws me to the door, but something even more magnetic. There is something spiritual in the preparation, in the presentation, in the fulfillment.
I don’t think you could have described her cooking better (even the little bit that I had sooo inspires me) and as the cook of our household, I can say there is some comfort and relaxation for preparing something special…a little bit beyond just the task itself..
Yes. I think the proof of her pleasure is that I’m sent from the kitchen. If she didn’t enjoy it, she wouldn’t want to do it alone. Cooking is how she resets.
Total keeper.
Yes. Yes she is.