11:02 P.M. The last tray of jumbo chocolate chip cookies came out of the oven. The last of the batch, they look rather un-chocolatey but nearly perfect in roundness, sugary smoothness, and caramel color. The teenagers who were helping me left nearly three hours ago with three different types of dough to bake for the fundraiser tomorrow. Now, it's just me. And my purple cell phone, the white-flower-imprinted-on-black coffee mug I've adopted, and the computer at the kitchen table.
Two red pot holders and a red and white striped towel hang over the oven handle, placed intentionally by the heat to free them from the water so freely soaked into their fibers. The gas stove still has the dried, crusty spaghetti sauce splashed across it's surface in an artistic design from last night's dinner. Three stacks of cookies rise above the counter from the cooling racks, Cookie Monster's dream. Lemony white stockings, stars, and Christmas trees wait to be iced. The window has been ajar all evening in an attempt to counteract the double warmth of the oven on top of the city-heated apartment. (Energy inefficient, surely, but with no other method to regulate the temperature, it is what it is.) The two house plants I've placed in the kitchen in an attempt to keep them alive droop on their ledge between kitchen sink and window. Dishes fill the drying rack, the red bowl resting precariously on top of the ceramic plates and wooden spoon, the untouched dishwasher ironically just beneath them, only the counter top providing separation. Empty jars, waiting to be stored in the bench seat, stand guard next to the coffee accoutrements: beans, French press, grinder, electric hot water heater.
Welcome to my kitchen. Messy, used, almost always in process, a personal refuge.
