What happens in the kitchen

Tonight, I really enjoyed cooking. If you know me well, your jaw may have just dropped slightly. The kitchen has not been my favorite place. For most of our marriage, Dan has done nearly all of the dishes and cooking. But recently, since I’ve stopped eating gluten and dairy, I find that sometimes I have to make things. And that sometimes I even want to make things.

This evening, as my newly constructed fan blew air around and tiny little herb plants started to pop their heads up in teapots outside, I embarked on a soup-making adventure. It had been a very up and down day, with a lot of excitement, and a lot of stress. I’d cried at least once, and about burst out if my skin at least once.

So I brought my day with me and started chopping up vegetables. To the sizzle and whirl of the veggies cooking, and the swift chop-chop-chop of my knife, I started to feel a little better. I thought of how lovely it was to be connected to the land. I thought about the people in my life, and the ups and downs of relationships. I thought about the sunshine, the wind, the flowers on my table.

I began to breathe deeper and easier, savoring the garlic and herb smells, wafting from the soup. I enjoyed visits from friends, one who listened while I cried and talked, and tried to cook beans without soaking them. And another who washed dishes, sat and ate with me.

I need quiet gentle time in the kitchen, with the smells and tastes and sounds and friends. I need the rhythm of creating to remind me of my center, to help me to breathe and to be. And I need friends to share life with, with all the highs and lows and tasty foods.

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