How much time do we all spend at our sinks? We wash a lot of grapes and spin a lot of salads. How many pots get filled for pasta? And when did noodles turn into pasta, I’d like to know? While we’re at it, why did nobody tell me that granite counters would break a lot of dishes on their way to the dishwasher?
I’ve owned this house, one way or another, for going on 25 years. I used to hate being hugged at the sink. I felt pushed, unbalanced. Perhaps my center of gravity has changed. I know for certain that when we age our skin thins. The back of my hands now chafes under too much hot water so I keep a bottle of lotion in the cupboard.
Here’s what doesn’t change. I wish it were as easy to get things dry as it is to get them wet.
So, my view. First, in May. Early, early summer, early morning. Roses just planted, window screen in place, Northern California marine layer in full gray force. I don’t mind the overcast, that’s what keeps our days so temperate.
And today. Exeunt peach roses against the fence, enter sunflowers.
They volunteered, sprouting of their own accord. Seen from the kitchen sink, quite tame. Up close, well, fiercer. Have no fear, they’re still domesticated. It’s just a kitchen garden, and despite the saurian aspect, those are just tall flowers.
Reminds me of a children’s book, one in which common household objects open up and land you in another world. Narnia of course, first and foremost, In The Night Kitchen another. We don’t always know right away what parts of our lives may loom large and mythic, later.
And your sink?