Today, I put cinnamon on my brussel sprouts. I laughed, and then I realized: I like who I am in the kitchen.

I like that messes accumulate. I like that I make mistakes and laugh about them. I love that I’m not quite sure what I’ll create, but I start creating anyway. I like that I have no concept of how much water I’ll ‘waste’ by washing the unnecessary dishes that I use in each new venture. I like that I open a cabinet and pull out four or five ingredients and sprinkle a little bit of this and a little bit of that. I like the familiarity of the utensils, the people they remind me of, the recipes that I review. I like the flourish of throwing ingredients in bowls, of cutting vegetables, of smelling herbs. I like feeling domestic. I like feeling connected to every other person who has fixed a meal for themselves of others. I like imagining what I’ll do with the leftovers, thinking of new recipes.

I like who I am in the kitchen.

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