Kitchen, confidently

So I intend to cook big time this week-end. A few assorted odd types are coming to the loft Sunday, to help warm the place up and I told myself it’s time I did something more with the stove than just turn it on for my morning latte.

It’s depressing to realize how much care I took with moving my kitchen paraphernalia from the spacious suburban place to the smaller loft unit and how little I have used any of it since I have been here. It’s disgustingly pristine at the moment.





Time to take out the variously shaped tart tins, the pastry scrapers, the double mesh strainers and get to work.

But on what? I lack a theme. I am stumped. Random nibbles? I am yawning as I write this. Substantial salads? I can see the splattered vinaigrette on my new couch, the soggy lettuce that’s been sitting out too long. Oh God, I have to do better than that.

National themes? Last time I meandered over to the kitchens of the Eastern Front, I found my table laden with foods that were as heavy as the granite on my new kitchen counters. It was nice, it was fun, it was then, now is different.

Got it! The theme has come to me as I type this: Urban Foods! How appropriate! How edgy and sleek! How urbane!

Okay, but what do I mean by that? Damned if I know just yet. Write me if you have ideas.

idle talk over a paintbrush

My man Jason and I had a talk yesterday. He asked: how is it downtown? (He recently bought a house with his partner, not too far from where he works – west of Middleton, which is pretty west, if you know Madison).

I could not lie. Great, I said, it is great! All last year I kept coming home to a big empty house and before the night was out, I would be bummed to the core. My thrill would have to come from seeing the plumber arrive early at a neighbors’ house as I would try to second-guess which of their toilets might be leaking.

These days my sense of isolation is gone. I left it somewhere there with the sagging gutters and chipped roof shingles. Toilets and plumbers are not the thrill du jour anymore.

Longing, I smelled longing in the air. Jason, who is possibly the best color guy on this side of the Polish/German border, is not one to complain so he kept quiet. Very quiet.

He painted and snipped (did I detect a sniffle?) and I watched his talented hands do such beautiful work even as the elaborate tattoos on his trained, muscled arms seemed to sag in a dispirited kind of way. We stayed in our comfortable silence --- a favorite way to be, very intimate, very “I understand you” kind of thing.

When we spoke again it was about the condo boom downtown, about trips to big cities – topics that had the big E (escape) written all over them.

A year. I give him a year. He wont stay away longer than that.