A Ready Apron
With all that's happening during this pandemic, especially here in NYC, I long for a feeling of safety beyond just staying home and safe and out of the reach of the virus. It goes deeper than that. I long for a world that makes sense, where what goes up must come down. Where water boils at 212 degrees Fahrenheit.
When I walk into my kitchen, sometimes it feels like, okay...what am I doing in here? Do I really want to cook something? Bake something? Maybe I should just make a can of beans and call it a day. Sometimes, the can of beans wins. But I'm finding that if I reach up to the side of my refrigerator and pull my apron down from the hook, place it over my head, and tie it firmly in the back, things change.
I have to put on shoes too. Something supportive like I used to wear when I still worked in a kitchen. Something that supports me as I stand there, or glide back and forth from sink to stove to fridge to sink again.
I start by putting things in order. I wash any remaining dishes lying around. I wipe down all my countertops. Are my knives clean? Cutting boards? I prep the prep. Now I'm ready. Well...sort of.
I first stare blankly into the refrigerator for a few minutes, close the door, walk to the pantry, and stare blankly into those shelves a while. If inspiration doesn't hit, I walk over to my shelf full of food books and recipes and inspiration from American county fairs to distant eateries across the globe. I go back to the refrigerator. I eye the freezer. I make a log, a mental note, a gathering of all that can be included in my food palette, all in my head.
Then it dawns on me. Not like a eureka or a lightbulb, but like a distant yell that catches my attention. Like when you were a kid and your mother calls you in from playing outside. Or like someone waving at you from way down on the other end of train platform. What to cook and eat is just there now, when it wasn't there before.
Before I know it, I'm in motion. I'm not thinking anymore. I'm somewhere beyond. I let the salt mill and fire under the pan dictate where I am, when I am. My knife fits easily in my hand. Sharp and sure. Scraping off carrot skins, seeding, chopping, slicing. Oil pours from a bottle. Steam rises from a pot. I'm not really in NYC anymore. I'm not really in my home anymore staving off a pandemic.
I'm just in a kitchen. A regular-size kitchen with regular utensils. A regular person doing what regular people have been doing for thousands upon thousands of years. I'm just cooking. Colors shift. Aromas drift. A spoon dives into the alchemy for a taste test. Finally, when all the knobs are in their off position, I grab the plates.
I paint the dish. I present. I move a veg here and some sauce there. I round up a stray grain of rice, put it in place. It's time.
I look up. I realize that I can bring myself to the table now. I can come back to others. I can, because I took a break from pandemics and numbers and the fear outside the door. The fear inside my head.
I bring my creations to the table. What's on the plate is just a regular meal. A home-cooked meal. Maybe more advanced than some, more novice than others. I look over at my loved one sitting next to me, smiling and eating and being fed. I smile back.
When we've had our last bites, I realize I'm still wearing my apron. That's okay. I gather our empty plates and take them to the kitchen. I place leftovers in the fridge. I put dishes in the dishwasher. I place my hands flat on the counter, acknowledging: done and done.
I untie my apron, lift it over my head and hang it back on the hook by the refrigerator. I know that it will be there ready for me when I need it, when I need to remember once again that water always boils at 212 degrees Fahrenheit.
