Friday, June 4, 2010
The One With And That Will Be Our Kitchen.
The walls will be white.
And there will be a vintage teacloth as a curtain.
At a window above the sink that I can fling open.
Because I'll probably burn the cinnamon sugar toast that is under the broiler.
Just like my mother does each and every time.
There'll be random patterned plates and glassware in the cupboards.
And elephant shaped measuring cups on the counter.
Lined up and ready for baking.
Which I'll do most every day.
And which won't ever come out burned.
There'll be spaghetti sauce bubbling in a pot on the stove.
Or enchilada sauce.
A couple of pieces of chocolate bark in my hand.
So it tastes exactly how my great grandmother's sauces tasted.
And you'll come in and kiss the side of my neck.
And then our children will scamper in whooping and slapping their feet.
Against the black and white checkered floor.
Wanting to know, what's for dinner?!
And you'll chase them around.
Nearly tripping over the mongrel of a dog we'll most definitely have.
And then finally.
When I've got you all settled into your seats and served.
We'll say grace.
The voices of our children.
As their eyes and hands are clasped tight.
And you trying to play footsie with me beneath the table.