there's a ballerina in your kitchen

My brain is protesting the calls of morning.  Caffeine, check.  Workout, no check.  It’s a morning where if I went back to bed, I’d sleep for days.  Confused by my lack of direction, I thought I'd write, hoping to rouse my dormant, foggy but word laden mind.  The writing process often cleanses me like a hot shower.  Thoughts drape over and around me, softening my edges, scrubbing the rough, scaly parts smooth, until I feel invigorated and complete.

I have an image of a friend of mine twirling artfully in her kitchen.  I stopped by her house yesterday, unannounced, so of course she was in the middle of things.  As she said goodbye to her babysitter and hello to me, she poured Cherrios for her toddler, microwaved a sweet potato and fried two eggs.  All the while, she was engaging me in gracious conversation.  

Women in their kitchens have always been beautiful to me.  It’s not that I think they belong there or necessarily enjoy being there, it’s just the way they move around so deftly that intrigues me.  My friend is a fantastic cook who nurtures herself and others with nutritious and fun foods.  I think cashew butter and crepes are fun, don't you?  And although she might disagree because she spends far too much time in her own kitchen, I’d say she's happy there.  Whenever I am a guest in her house she always provides a colorful, delicious meal that matches her cheerful personality.

I, on the other hand, always feel one step behind and anxious in my own kitchen.  Which may be part of the reason I feel almost mesmerized as I watch others conjure bland food items into a confetti blast of a meal.  

A few weeks ago, I sat at the kitchen table of another friend who was planning her daughter’s birthday party.  She was explaining the order in which she’d prepare the foods so that on the big day it would all come together.  She was the maestro of her orchestra.  As she was talking, she was towel drying a cupcake pan and I thought how nostagic towel drying seemed to me.  I always let my dishes air dry and clutter the counter.  Memories of grandmothers towel drying dishes in their kitchens visited my mind as I watched her.   

When I observe a woman working in her kitchen it’s as if I am seeing a special side of her reserved mostly for the intimacy of her family.  It's somewhat like that child who acts reserved in public, then becomes playful, alive and even a little naughty in the familiarity and security of their own home.

My mom is a scientist in her kitchen, measuring and analyzing textures and flavors.  She tastes, then adjusts, turns a stir on the stove, peeks into the oven, pausing to double check her work every few minutes.  She is focused, friendly and in control.  She creates beautiful, complex meals and desserts without expectation, or enough praise.  My mother-in-law works so effortlessly that I don’t even realize she is working.  I belly myself up to her counter while she flows with conversation, seemingly without ever breaking eye contact.  She is so well practiced and efficient that it doesn’t occur to me to ask if she needs help.  I just sit and watch, chatting it up.

Wife, friend, daughter, sister, mother, grandmother-they are beautiful as they move around, right there in front of you, even on mac-n-cheese night.  

And for the male dancers who dazzle in the kitchen, you are the danseurs (I looked it up), and I applaud you too.