It used to be that the only reason we had a kitchen is because it came with the house.
We used to know that dinner was ready when I set off the smoke detector.
But things seemed to have changed in the last several weeks. The decision to step into a room that seemed daunting and scary wasn't as forbidding as it once had been once I took that first step into it. Those nicely squared boxes that hid all of the dishes probably could use some dusting, and I avoided the sharp-objects dealies in the very tidy block for a few days; you just don't know what kind of damage they'll do once out of their tucked-in state. You should have seen me. I was like a lost child in the land of Adults and I wasn't ready to grow up. I might have bounced on the floor a little bit just to, you know, check out the escapability of the place.
But, I had a purpose in being in this foreign, soul-sucking place. Five weeks ago, I made the life-changing decision to go wheat free. This was a decision mainly to see if gluten in wheat was causing me the problems that I suspected it was causing. After about a week of giving up the blessed stuff, my suspicions were right. Almost six weeks later, I feel better than I have felt in years. The difference in energy still has me in shock. No more stomach upset; no more bloaty/floaty tummy; I have so much more energy now; especially exciting is that I have no more foggy brain. Yay for thinking straight and remembering my mama's name! I've lost weight. That's a bonus.
Unfortunately, all of this good news meant that I had the energy to now get up. I abandoned the search for anti-depressants and entered the space that I thought I hated. I grabbed some of those thingies that I tend to avoid. I think they're called skillets. And sauce pans.
I was suddenly Thor with his hammer.
I was Wonder Woman with her golden rope.
I was Zeus and his mighty lightning bolt!
In all actuality, I was Swamp Thing and I only held wimpy seaweed.
Okay, enough of this. I floozified myself for my new art. The Husband and I cleaned up and organized the kitchen, and I pushed up my sleeves, probably exposed some shoulders to be a true floozy. I scoured the Internet for gluten-free recipes and when The Husband and The Child came home from work and school, the Kitchen Floozy demanded, "Taste this." They tasted. Unfortunately, I cannot get the kiddo to like anything but a box brand of a certain gluten-freeish product, but the husband's a bit easier. Perhaps he is a floozy, too. So cheap.
So now the kitchen and I get along great. I almost cannot tear myself away with all of the nut flours I must try, and all of the veggie combinations that I have to test. I have grilled on the smoker an eggplant lasagna. I have made my own salsa out of the vegetables people have been kind enough to let me have. I have made almond and sesame crackers, and I have rediscovered that the stove top is for something more than mutilating an egg. I have even gone over to the hippy-dippy side of making hand-made soaps.
This is, of course, all very strange to me. While at one time I observed the religious belief that cooking and cleaning were important--just not important for me, as well as the cooking school of If It Could Fit In a Toaster, I Could Cook It; I have since changed my stance about this strange, dangerous room. I apparently needed a power sport of cooking with weird materials to challenge me to even go in there, and I am there each day like cheap red lipstick loves her floozy.