Omelette Connection

When I stand at the edge of my kitchen and scan across the counter, I think of you and you probably doing the same.

I tug the handle of my fridge and pull out a tray of eggs. A mixing bowl on stand by. A wire whisk sways to a stop while resting on my cutting board.

I peek into the sink and notice a few dirty dishes. Thinking to myself, I ought to clean first before I get started.  That's what he would do.

Tidy sink. Side towels are ready. I stoop down and poke my head into the cupboard.  A non-stick frying pan works for me.

I wipe down the counter again. A thought of you once again pops into my head. My eyes watery and my heart smiles then breaks.

Egg shells cracked open. Stacked clumsily like an ivory tower at the edge of the carton.

I prod my whisk into the centre of each yolk. A shower of salt but not black pepper.  Black pepper makes my eggs look dirty.  Wonder if I ever mentioned it.

My pan gets warm and I feel the heat radiate off the surface. Flick a knob of butter in.

I swirl the pan and allow it to melt. I know we are both butter fans. Butter makes it better.

Eggs gently pour into the pan and begin solidify. A drop in temperature and they'll cook slow and steady.

A moment to quickly flip through my food magazines pending on my kitchen table.  I wonder again are you doing the same? Or maybe there's more happening in your frying pan than mine.

With a spatula I nudge my creation and with a gentle flick of my wrist what was once round is now a semicircle.  Half moon.

I lift my meal from pan to plate.

I stare down at it.

I rest my left fist at the edge of the counter and in my right I hold a fork.

My heart thuds fast and slow all at once. I cannot bring myself to enjoy my meal because it's like you robbed my appetite.

But no. That's not it. It's meaningful.  It's my moment that I share with you every chance I get.

Broken heart smiles.

Fork prongs pull a morsel. A bite and a warmth floods me. 

I share my meal with you alone in my kitchen.

Omelette connection.

With love,

A Girl Who Likes to Cook

Fruits of a Summer's Labour

Bare feet. Standing idle
A single ray of sun
Piercing through soft eyelashes.

Christmas coffee mug never retires
Filled with crisp brewed arabica.
Two sugars, and a cloudy swirl
Evaporated milk takes black coffee to caramel.

The morning dew sprays across toes as they glide
Through blades of grass.

creeping closely to the edge of the garden

Cup in one hand
Wicker basket in the other

Eyes investigate
Thick green leaves
Meandering vines

Fruits of a summers labour

Warm palms delve blindly
Feeling lush ripe tomatoes
Pluck and gently drop into a basket.

Feet hit dirt. Stepping deeper into a garden
Reaping what was sowed.

Heavy cucumbers
Curly lettuce reaching up like open hands
Begging to be lifted up and carried away.

Rich violet aubergine drooping
Like purple tear drops. Gleaming sharp sheers
Sever the clown tears from its green wire vine.

Mud pokes through the spaces between toes
The savory smell of chives draws attention
Branding sheers again, fistful at a time. Oniony sweet.

Spearmint scents rolling off finger tips.
A leaf or two popped between tongue and cheek
Refresh. Rejuvenate.

Oreo stalks bumble bees hovering in the marigolds
The cherp of robins on the roof top
Squeezing shoulder blades, stretching arms

A full breath in

Slowly out.

A basket filled to the brim

Fruits of a summers labour...

Xoxo,

A Girl who likes to Cook