It’s Just a Kitchen

My bare feet hit the floor and I started winding down the hall, my eyes barely open, my mind barely working. Out the window I could see that the moon was high over the neighborhood.

I stopped for a moment to take in all of its stillness. In a way, it made me feel lonely, as if I was the only one for miles. And in a way, it was comforting. That big orb that continued to show up, night after night, lighting up the darkness.

It’s not unusual for me to go through this ritual when I can’t sleep. I pace down the hall, twist down the stairs and end up in the kitchen, where I either drink a glass of water or turn on the television. For whatever reason, the kitchen, even in the middle of the night, is where I like to be.

It has the same things that your kitchen has. A stove. An oven. A sink. But I like the way it hums at night. I like to hear the clock ticking. The dishwasher churning.

Someone recently asked me how I deal with stress. That’s easy. I cook. But sometimes I don’t even have to cook. Sometimes, I just have to be in its presence.

I guess it helps to explain the journey I’ve been on –– the one that’s taken me from culinary school to the restaurant and now to a newfound career as a writer. Maybe it means nothing and maybe it means everything. Maybe it’s just a kitchen. Or maybe, it’s my life playing out before me, promising endless waves of transformation.