Clean Squeek

i love my apartment. the spacious dining room that doubles as study space; the color coded bookshelves; the double closets in the bedroom; the lamps i bought at TJMaxx; the quiet of the complex; the sun in the morning through the patio doors (that don’t actually lead to a patio-alas). i forget how lucky i am to have this serene, private space. i forget how much i love it until i spend significant time away from it. and i am always reminded when i come home. i am reminded when i clean it, and everything sparkles–looking almost as fresh and lovely as the day i moved in (remember, i have cats, so everything deteriorates eventually).

i cleaned it top to bottom today because i was having guests for a potluck. when i say top to bottom, i mean i actually vacuumed, dusted, and wiped down the bathroom. three tasks, that because i live alone, i feel no compulsion to do. and when i say potluck, i mean a hodgepodge dinner of egg rolls, spinach and artichoke dip with homemade bread, spinach salad with tahini sauce, and sour patch kids. for dessert i made an apple crumb pie, served warm with vanilla ice cream and cool whip. it was divine. there was also a nice selection of wines, and the company of fun friends, and DVRed episodes of Community. yes. i am lucky for the apartment, the means that allow me to live as i do, the cool people in my life.

so why the melancholy? the end of the semester left a big gap, but i should enjoy it. it should feel like breathing room instead of existential crisis. i woke up today ready to work. well, my brain did. my body went back to bed until noon. lucky, still. tomorrow i’ll try again. and if i fail, there is still the apartment, the DVR, the people. the research certainly isn’t going anywhere.

In the Kitchen with My Mother

The second time I make bread, I recognize the yeasty smell as one associated with my mother, who made pita bread at home when we were young. Older now, her hands hurt from the kneading and she no longer does it by hand.  Instead, she combines all the ingredients in her Kitchen Aid (a gift from her daughters a couple mother’s days ago) and let’s its sleek “S” hook do the hard work.

My relationship with my mother is strained for any number of trivial reasons, but it’s always been the kitchen that brings us together. Whether rolling grape leaves or making Easter cookies or meat pies, my sisters and I would gather around the largest counter and work in assembly line fashion under our mother’s direction.

Under her tutelage, we created delicious things. Under the guise of cooking, we created bonds and memories not so easily forsaken. When I think of what it might be like to be without my family, I recognize the moments in the kitchen, the sultry smell of bread baking as the ones I would miss most.

Like so many families, my family sees food as love.  Perhaps it’s this emotion and connectivity that draws me to baking and cooking now. There’s no reward like the meal enjoyed, or the pastry savored.  Perhaps, like my mother who cooked everyday for years, I make bread or cupcakes or lasagna as a way of saying “Yes. I love you. Yes.”