I bought a smaller house near a park.
The kitchen had enormous windows.
For the first six months, I kept almost nothing on the counters.
Then I started filling the space.
A blue kettle.
Plants.
A ceramic bowl from Santa Fe.
A ridiculous yellow toaster.
Objects chosen because I liked them.
Not because an interior architect was supposed to have a perfect
kitchen.
My home stopped being a portfolio.
It became mine.
I dated eventually.
Very slowly.
The first man who cooked for me was named Michael.
When he offered me soup, I froze.
He noticed.
I told him the shortest version of the story.
“My former husband may have used food as part of hurting me.”
Michael put the spoon down.
“What would make dinner feel safe?”
No defensiveness.
No wounded pride.
No demand that I trust him.
I said:
“Let me watch.”
So we cooked together.
We did not marry.
