A lazy woman
I’ve lived here all my life. From age seven till age forever. A most familiar space, one I can navigate with closed eyes.
Drenched in the scent of spices, my brain attempts to transfer the imagery of mixtures from the world invisible to the tangible, so tastebuds can scream yummy! A kind of calculation to ensure every detail blends in one accord. The perfect harmony from an orchestra.
The spoons and everything that dwelleth therein knoweth all about me. My name, history and thoughts. They have been my friends, they’ve watched me grow and glow but now I seek a breakup. I can’t deal anymore, but who can come to my rescue?
I hurt. My ankles and wrist. Legs and backbone cry out from the long hours of standing. The mechanical duties of pounding, stirring, chopping and doing every verb with the ing. I burn. The heat from the neon blue flames and the peppered seasoning with all its colours.
Several boiling pots lay open before me, all craving my attention simultaneously! Why won’t I be a super multi-tasker? Recall, I’ve got just a brain with a pair of hands to attend to these competing, boiling, vessels beneath my gaze.
I despise the day my elder instructed that I always be present in this room as soon as mom-in-chief steps a foot in. That day, an unwritten judgement was passed on me. The very determination of the course of my female sojourn.
And since that day, I sleep in my bedroom to first wake in this K-room — doing this all my life with the fear that I may do the same till death day. Most lovely weekends are spent here. Working for hours unending in observance of long processes that can be compared to the workings of a manufacturing plant. Well, in this case, I’m the plant — Sourcing the raw materials, processing them and churning out a finished product. I am a woman and it’s expected of me. Doesn’t matter if I like it or not. Quite, unfortunately.
The funny part is that I seem not to escape this life no matter where I go. I ask, which of the gods did I offend and why was this judgement passed on me without first listening to my side of the story? I want to be released to a world where meals would not have to take six precious hours to make.
In future, I had better turn out wealthy with the resources to employ workers who’ll take charge of this aspect of life. If not, my death sentence would have been signed. An everlasting dwelling in the room most familiar to me.
“Lazy!” I hear them accuse me loudly. But I speak my truth. Not all women are cut out for this room. Again I plead, can I be set free? Can the chore of meal making be done, not out of duty exclusively placed on a certain gender but as a skill necessary for survival? One for every human being and by every human being.
Cause when the day’s done, I fall like a branch from a large mahogany, with a loud thud! Too weary to talk to the creator nor carry on any productive task. For I sacrificed my all on the altar of food making.
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