{ j'etais }

yesterday i had the urge to cook. i assure you this doesn't happen often. not because i dislike cooking, but because i don't think i'm very good at it and prefer to play sous-chef (i'm a contemplative but efficient chopper). i sell myself extremely short when it comes to domestic endeavors; in the recesses of my mind, i think myself inept at certain things because a man hasn't chosen me to be his wife. (fucked up, right? i know. but sometimes a belief is so subconsciously held that it never really comes into the light, it's not spoken...and once it's illuminated and said aloud, only then does it become evident how painfully deformed it is. so as embarrassing as it is for me to admit that i think i suck because no one wants to marry me, it's important that i say it so i can see how ridiculous it is.)

there are twisted arteries of belief in me, petrified seeds that have never been cultivated. i am untangling my spiritual and emotional circulatory systems. i am redirecting light to neglected, barren landscapes. i am outgrowing some stunted, circular beliefs about the world and about myself. it's not a dreamy, inspirational, blurry-edged thing. it's painful. my eyes and my throat ache. it chokes me. i will not paint a happy picture of this when that's not at all what it is...this is nasty work. battlefield surgery: desperate, lonely, shaky, pain-hazed. there is liberation ahead, and it calls to me, but it makes no gentle promises. it says, you will go through hell before you reach me. you will lose so much. but come. i believe you will make it. come.

(shit, where was i? it's really hard for me to write about concrete things.)

cooking. yes, i had the urge to cook. i made a list (categorized according to where the items could be found in the store: dairy, dry goods, produce, chocolate). i wrestled everything from the cart to the car, from the car to the house (incidentally, this is often when i feel most lonely: when i'm doing things that require physical stamina that other women have the opportunity to have their significant others do. but when my friends' significant others try to help me with things like this, it makes me uncomfortable.) i unpacked it all, laid out ingredients geometrically on the kitchen table (best to start from order, when you can). i set empty pots on burners, invisibly mapping my course, my timing. thinking too much about it overwhelmed me, so eventually i decided to just begin.

i melted the butter, boiled the water, minced the garlic, measured the cream. i wasn't sure that stuff should go in when it did, because i needed 12 minutes for this and 8 minutes for the other thing. i put it in anyway.

the thing is, everything came out perfectly (homemade fettucine alfredo with spinach and parmesan-crusted chicken, if you're curious). i made good attempts at planning everything out, which probably helped, but the main thing is that i did. i'm a thinker by nature --- i deliberate and i analyze. action is hard for me, because until you do, any mistake or undesired outcome is only in your mind.

there's obviously an abstract life lesson here, something about jumping headlong into my days without fear or hesitation, something about sunbursts and embracing storm clouds, something about surrender and strength. there's probably a poem here, art of some sort, something i could wring from the satisfying rush of heat from the oven, something about how silly i feel every time i touch a pot holder.

but for now this was just a night i spent by myself, quiet, in my own company. it was a night i ate at the coffee table in the semi-dark. laughter from the neighbor's open window peppered the silence. big, joyous juliet roses hung their heads sleepily over my dinner. i had mail to read, clothes to put away, and an uncertain, unseen future to consider. but last night i sat back, crossed my legs, took a breath, and ate, and was.