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I’m a tactile learner. The burn of oil as it splashes from the pan; the fragrance of sticky garlic, soggy scallion. The sizzle of carrots, chicken, mushrooms. The gears of my joints click and creak as I move–a clockwork skeleton counting the seconds. I was taught, through calloused hands and bubbles, that the act of cooking is pushing one’s love onto the plate. To serve is to confess, “Here is my heart; here is a fork.”
I have crossed 250 miles for love, I have crossed the gateway between the kitchen and the dining room for the same. “Eat up.”
01/29/2023