My grandmother and I have always been told that I am her carbon copy, starting from our appearances down to our weird quirks.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Me, circa 2025
My grandmother, circa 1970
Single serving quick dinner college student are the words I type into the Google search bar, and I don’t think twice before committing to the first option that pops up. I rack my brain for the last meal that I ate that wasn’t pasta, but it comes up blank.
I had a meticulous plan. A vegetable side dish, a main entree of a meat-based curry and rice, and a palate cleanser to wrap it up. The midday meal always consisted of the same categories, but I always tried my best to incorporate variety with some creativity.
I crouch down to grab my baby pink starter cookware set from my assigned cabinet. The detachable handles are slowly deteriorating, unable to hold the weight of the pans, but I don’t worry too much about it. I reckon it’s unlikely that these will follow me to my next apartment, given that I had a lot of schooling (and apartment hopping) left to go.
The kitchenware that I pull out of the cupboard is metal and engraved with the initials of me and my husband, gifts from our wedding ceremony. I will save these for my children, and for the children of my children, and all the children to come.
I lean back, shifting all of my weight onto one leg before switching back and forth and back again. I am restless. The kitchen has been a foreign place to me, ever since I was a little kid banished to watch the cooking from at least ten steps away from the stove. I am unsure if I lie in its good graces. I pray that I will be spared from burnt edges.
If the kitchen is a ship, I am a fearless captain of the sea. If one looks closely, the floor seems to have my footprints worn into it, right next to the stovetop from all the hours I spent watching my creations simmer.
I have to rise onto the balls of my feet to grab my plate from the overhead cabinets. My hypothesis for it being in the clearance aisle at my local convenience store is driven by the chipped edges of ceramic. I transfer my meal from pan to plate and add some dry garnish in hopes of making it look slightly more palatable (note: it does not).
The plates I use have built-in compartments, and they allow me to properly distribute each dish for each family member depending on their preferences. If I remember that my eldest daughter loves vegetables while my youngest son despises them, none of the food will end up wasted.
I hastily rinse my plate and utensils, gently placing them onto the drying rack. I have another problem set to attend to, and cooking solely serves the purpose of basic nutrition.
There wasn’t much time to rest. I would find myself in the kitchen again in an hour or so, but for the moment, I find comfort in cooking for my family.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
The way that water erodes rock, our only differences stem from the circumstances that have shaped us. We may be products of our time, but the kitchen remains a timeless place.
