Labour of love

Today when I woke up, I thought it was the most beautiful fall morning. I had plans to have a nice breakfast and then go for a short hike. That’s when things started to go wrong. I left the tea kettle on while I was upstairs and burnt it to a crisp. (Much to my dismay, the smoke alarm didn't go off).

Then I started to make a big breakfast for the boy—O’Brien potatoes, a spinach and mushroom omelet with sautéed onions, steak, and garlic, whole-grain toast with homemade apple butter Zia gave me, which was part of her Urban Jam Project.

I burnt my fingers badly on a pan I picked up, not knowing that it was scorching hot. (On my right hand, and exactly where my fingers hit the keyboard. Can you see some irony here?) This was the second time I’ve burnt my hand in a week or so. Then, there was a grease fire that I had a very hard time extinguishing, even after coating the stove with baking soda. Did I mention that the toast burnt, too? I guess it was just one of those mornings where everything that could go wrong did.

Amazingly, the food actually turned out delicious. I’m getting to be a much better cook these days. It’s good fuel for the holidays, as Nick won’t be able to give me such a hard time. And I’m enjoying it for the most part. I’m learning that I’m a messy cook, though. My kitchen can be spotless one moment and then...moments later…it looks like a tornado hit it.

But I like being in the kitchen. In a way, it makes me feel close to my mom, too. I used to wonder about the effort and time she put into cooking for us. She would spend hours in the kitchen. Now, I see that it’s a labour of love.

And today I've got the scars to prove it.