I pick the non-wilted bits off the head of lettuce and rinse them under the faucet. I grab the plastic tubs of sour cream and guacamole from the fridge and a spoon from the drawer that sticks a little when you try to open it. Hand into oven mitt, mitt onto pan, pan onto table. I wipe my sleeve across my face and traipse back to the toaster. I feel so foolish for crying over stupid, little things. Warm tears coat my cheeks in the air-conditioned room. I sit on the sofa and break down, gasping in childish sobs. Of course, you would have appreciated anything I made for you, but it was always better when the dish matched the idea in your head.when I made it like you would have made it (if you were only well enough to cook for yourself again.) In the present, I poke the TOAST button and flee the kitchen as to not cry in front of the smothered chips. I think about how excited you were when cheese bubbled perfectly- "just a little brown, ever so slightly crispy." We would joke about your persnickety preferences, likely a product of your superior taste. I hear your voice so clearly, like you're still calling from the next room: "you have to press the TOAST button, it cooks much faster." The tears start to roll. I freeze when I try to adjust the heat setting. I slide the pan into the tiny oven- triumphant! But the next task breaks me. "No," my conscious scolds, "you will not cry over shredded cheese." I add another pinch for flavor, then another to assert dominance. I dangle my (washed) fingers into the zip-lock bag, grab a generous pinch and rain mild cheddar down on my gourmet meal. Beans, evenly distributed (if I do say so myself.) Salsa- good to go. The chips fall in the pan without a problem. So that you would pay attention to what you put into meĪnd so that you would concern yourself with me when I was broken, Just as you notice the hum of the refrigerator,Īnd the glow of the stove as you make breakfast.Īnd you could not hurt me as you have before,Īnd you would appreciate me as something that you need,Īnd you might feel privileged to have me,īecause ovens know nothing more than food,
I would cook cake and Thanksgiving turkey, Now know that I existed in any other form,
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