Thursday, January 13, 2011

This is Not My Kitchen

On Thanksgiving, my children and I moved back in with my parents for six months.  Among the many difficulties that arise when returning home, none are truly awful.  Well, none except one. 

It is the loss of my kitchen.  I love to cook. 

Just ask my friends - I'm not half bad, either.  In fact, I'm pretty amazing in my own right.  So it's always a shock to me when I come home - for 6 months, this time around - to find myself feeling like the kitchen it off limits.  Is it because I'm the youngest, and will always be the baby, even at 29?  Is it because I like letting my 2 year old help?  Is it because Mother would rather do it herself, or that she's so anal about her cleanup rules?  No, no, no, and no.  It is because I am considered the "un-cook" in my family.  Me!  It's simply unspeakable.  I take affront.  They tell me, "Well, you make the good bread."  As if that's a consolation prize.  As if I cannot - would not even presume to try to - do anything else.  Instead, I am the designated babysitter. 
So, Wednesday morning at 4am when I woke up to drop off my parents at the airport for a 2 week jaunt to Mexico, was I grumpy?  No!  Jealous?  A little bit.... but!  But I have a kitchen for two weeks.  And it may not be my own; I may not know where everything is; but it is mine for the using. 
For two glorious weeks. 
Non si fanno frittate senza rompere le uova.