You misconceive the calling, says bird in bush – troubled times call for comfort not derailment of humanity – petty, bickering without soul – I may be bird-brained but human sense has the consistency of overripe fruit.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
If I were a kitchen, I’d want an old-fashioned woman at my counters – rolling dough canning pickles, chutney, jam, homemade pasta sauce, and every Sunday, a roast. She’d wear her sweat like a saint, ignore her aching back – one practiced hand feeding her Carnation baby, while other children flocked to Formica, hot flesh sticking to vinyl as they picked at fresh made sweet buns, the pot on the stove perpetually simmering.
Or give me modern efficiency – ninjas and presses, air fryers and induction cookers – let the children belly up to the breakfast bar, chomp on veggies and humus, while cook totes baby in a sling, and preps bone broth, strains of Baby Einstein emitting from a propped up iPad, while a cellphone vibrates on granite, and the Keurig spits out Starbucks Pike.
Just don’t abandon me, piles of unopened mail, or tossed aside receipts company for coffee rings on my counters. Please don’t litter my surfaces with rotting takeout containers, or dishes caked with processed cheese – don’t leave my stainless steel sinks stained, spoiled food reeking in the refrigerator, traces of late night mishaps curdling on the floor; absence of familiar sounds declaring my presence invalid.