So this is a poem entry which means it’s going to cover journal entries but in an artistic way! Can’t wait to share my poetry with ya’ll. These will not feature photos so the words can speak for themselves.
First Thing: Cooking.
Little am I in the kitchen as much as my parents, but as often as they say dinner’s ready” does my appetite sparkle. The thought of sizzling meats and spicy additives make my head dizzy. Strangely enough, I have a bit of a stubborn nose that doesn’t let the wafting aroma of celebrated bacon to work it’s magic, promoting drool in many.
There are no elephant stomps as my brother would race down the stairs, when he lived with us. However my dog practically trips down the stairs and stands alert at the edge of the counter as my dad worries about burnt hashbrowns.
Wondering what mom will be making me, a special meal for a wonderful person like me, she says I should have come down earlier so I grab cereal. Much to my disappointment.
The thing is… Although cooking and baking and frying are of much joy to me, I prefer not to do breakfast. Breakfast, being the most important meal in my family is of sacred ground.
Mum making pancakes and Papa making the pan fry, I cannot overtake such a place of festivities. A.K.A. Even cooks can be lazy
It’s lunch that matters.
The crispy sandwiches and fresh juice… It’s lunch that keeps my hands busy.
Since my parents are snack-ers, between lunch and dinner, they look at me with amusement when I take out all the refrigerator has.
First it’s the bread and the eggs, in the other hand, with a milk handle in between my searching fingers. The butter balances on top of my head… Just kidding, Mum has come, must not make a mockery when an audience is present…
Tray out of the cabinent and on the way to the shelves of wonder.
Dog in the way, encouraging her to sit with the other viewer.
The second I step into the pantry, it’s the greatest pause. My mind entangled in the web of seasons…
Snap back out, I join the universe with the smile of a chocolate chip thought.
However what will this sandwich include? Will I bend the way that two bread pieces are looked at?
Grabbing muffin mix on top of the oregano, chives, and peanut butter, I dash out and hit reality.
Nothing is actually plated and my stomach is fermenting into something else all together.
Snap back again. Place objects of taste on counter. Start spilling passion in order to heat a cold stove top.
Butter spread on pan evenly, taught by Father, and natural butter instinct provided by Mum. Brown bread in center. Bread of seed-filled rye.
Now rice, peanut butter and many others await to see what task of flavour can be assigned to them. I tell rice that it belongs in the microwave.
-(Side note about shamefully using the microwave: After all, I am only a starving college student that has just started to buy her own groceries… In other words, I usually work with left-overs that my pops shakes his head at.)-
Getting back to the sticky white pods of history, I engage the microwave door to begin its’ timer. At the same time, the oven beeps on with the light tap os a far-reaching pinky.
The oven has to decide what meat it wants this time. I’m letting this sandwich decide for itself who will appeal to it. What? The turkey is calling your name? Fine let’s get that exact then, yanking a pineapple from the fruit basket.
The next part preperation stirs adrenaline.
Cutting and slicing.
Dicing and stabbing… Is your heart not pumping as fast as mine?
Luckily dad’s not around as I pull out the biggest knife in the wooden stand.
I look like murderer that belongs on Criminal Minds, no?
-Leela Hamm, “The Blindian”
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