I want to have a kitchen with you.
It doesn’t have to be spacious nor large. It can be cluttered, can be jam-packed with decorations and pots and pans from the hanging rack, and we can always have one too many spoons for our own good. You can see dry ingredient jars lining along the wooden floating shelf, an array of colors and aromatic heavenly spices. You can find matching coasters in the drawers, along with their coupled cups — one of a piglet, one of a donkey; or one of a dumpling, one of a drink. You can see mismatched clay mugs, for my coffee; glistening glaze-finished dishes, for your exquisite cooking.
It doesn’t have to look expensive. It can be a bit cramped, but always clean. It has to be dressed in sunlight, the way one window opens directly in front of the sink, so you can hear birds as we do the dishes from breakfast. You can see your baby oregano from the windowsill all the way from here, basking in the sun. There are our initials on magnets on the fridge door; M and C (M and F?). You can see the mini whiteboard we write grocery lists on, and the occasional poor jokes of the week. Right beside, a pinned crumpled piece of paper says, go out with me? It looks ancient as hell.
It doesn’t have to be fancy. The tiles on the wall in front of the stove aren’t new, but white and cozy nonetheless. We arrange our cutting boards and utensils and the dish rack too — we might move them around all through the year, though. To make space for the new potted plant to squeeze in, green things up a bit.
I want us to have a kitchen. Alone, I won’t even scoot near the oven, rely on microwaves my whole life for dinner instead. I won’t understand the beauty of letting food cook, the rise of dough, the sizzle of oil on a hot pan; or the sear on meat, the crackle of sunny side-ups frying, the small pops and moisture escaping from fish. I won’t appreciate the process of letting fruits ripe, the coolness of fresh vegetables, or the satisfying knead you get when making burgers. Hell, I won’t even be patient enough to let my instant ramen cook. You’d toss an egg and some greens into my bowl, though. Make sure I eat a bit healthier, maybe.
I want to dine with you. Watch bubbles rise in salted water as we pour pasta inside a pot, fettuccine or fusilli or just good ol’ penne, and get the sauce going. Help you chop potatoes like a Chinese chef as you preheat the oven. Bread marinated chicken in panko, it’s either going to be a katsu or a schnitzel, I can’t tell the difference — help you wash the lettuce and romaine as you mix the dressing. Give you all my mushrooms. Eat your spinach and ricotta cheese when your lactose intolerance is acting up.
I want to watch you as you cook. Observe the swiftness, practiced elegance of your fingers as they work the knife, julienning the carrots. Dicing the zucchini. Make their way around a peeler, leaving the potatoes naked. Just sit on the dining table and watch a show unfold, your little dance, lost in rhythm as you step all across the kitchen — watch the pan while our meat is cooking, tiptoeing to reach for spices, get a fresh spoon to taste-test. Me? I would wash all the dishes and follow your command. What do you need from me, chef. Yes, chef, I’ll set the table. This tastes good, chef. A bit more salt. A little sugar. No, I’ll get it from your lips.
I want to build a life around the dining table with you. Let our days revolve around breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Note the time from the last jar of coffee we brewed, or how long has our tea steeped. Have you drag me from my laptop for fika, and have you as my laptop instead. Ditch my overtime to help you bake. Arrange cookies on a tray, piping hot and fresh — marshmallow, dark chocolate, caramel oozing out of soft dough.
I want to keep sharing a meal with you. Go over our day with a plate of hearty food. Talk pleasure in between mouthfuls of protein. Close and decompress with dessert. A no-bake cheesecake, for sure.
I want to share good food with you. Eat to our heart’s content, because love is transferred from the taste upon your tongue to the center of your chest.
