I came home tonight mighty hungry. 8 o’clock and no dinner yet. Man. I could either rush and whip something in .02 seconds or I could exercise patience and take out the recipe I’d cut out from last week’s newspaper. As I pondered this crucial decision, I put some water to boil and turned the radio on. I stood next to the big window pane, feeling the cold draft seep in through the old, weathered cracks and I raised the volume a little louder. Wow, beautiful. What a great song. I didn’t recognize it, but it was just what I was yearning to hear. I immediately remembered, oh yeah, its Monday night. That’s when this particular radio station does album screenings. Excellent, I thought.
Great music changes everything.
I turned the lights off, all except for the small yellow bulb above the stove. I have a thing for doing things in the dark. Listening to music, showering, cooking… it’s a long list. I poured the boiling water into my favorite blue colored mug, raised my hair in a tangled bun, and took out my stain-filled apron. After taking a few sips from my steamy drink, I stood up and walked over to the fridge. I took out what I needed, turned on the stove and allowed my hands to take over. Do you ever get lost in whatever it is you’re doing? I do. Often.
Then it happened. A perfect moment. The kind that is so subtle, you often fail to recognize it. Nevertheless, there it was. In the middle of my kitchen. At the end of a long, cold day. Just like that, the world got quiet. All the little voices died off and the mental white noise, the kind that follows you around all day long, simply drifted away. For a few minutes, the only thing present was the song playing on the radio and my hand’s rhythmic motion as I sliced through a nice, big, yellow onion. The soft, buzzing sound from the oven heating up, the motion of falling snow catching the corner of my eye… Like I said, perfection.
Eventually, I opened up the oven door and reached inside to check on my culinary achievement. Kitzia mastering the oven baked, dill-sauce covered fish filet. Of course, I did not bother to pick up one of the pretty oven gloves hanging on the hook next to the door. I wasn’t exactly expecting to burn myself either. But I did. I saw the exact moment I bent my wrist and placed my hand on a collision course with the hot, iron brass. I didn’t stop it. I just watched. Then, illuminated by the red light of the hot oven, I observed as my ski changed color and sort of shriveled up. It didn’t really hurt at first. But I could tell it was a bad burn. I licked it. Once, twice, three times. I’d never done that before. Is that what burnt skin taste like? It was bitter. Really bitter. Maybe that wasnt the taste of burnt skin. It tasted so chemical-ish. Maybe it was the taste of burnt lotion. Wait, I wasn’t wearing lotion. I licked an unburnt spot on m hand just to make sure. Tasted normal enough. I looked at the wound some more. It was sort of pretty. It was changing some more. Now it was a little puffy, a deeper shade of red, and perfectly formed. I touched it softly. Ow.
And then I thought of you. Out of all the thoughts this moment could have triggered, it triggered you. And in one split second my mind drew a million parallels between you and this burn. You were one and the same. Down to the same bitter taste. Unlike the burn however, there’s no way I’d bring my hand anywhere near the oven right now. Much less place it next to the brass, but you… you on the other hand were a whole ‘nother story. Can someone please tell me why I kept sticking my hand in the oven with you?
I don’t know. Self mutilation? Masochism? Some other equally twisted explanation? It doesn’t matter, I’m through picking at my wounds. I’m letting them heal. I’m taking my dish and I’m getting out of the kitchen.
Goodnight.
Line upon line... 