The water boils and I stir the pot. I put the macaronis in and close the top. The kitchen smells of burned onions and garlic; my clothes have a combination of both smells. Unlike my mother, I don’t know my ways around the kitchen. I don’t know where all the peppers and other additives are. I don’t know where she stores her best knives, her best plate ware.
I’m not a cook. I’m not a housekeeper, nor am I a maid. I despise frozen meat and the smell of fish. I’m scared of knives, scissors and other sharp objects. I have no predilection for pots and pans and silverware. I despise chores.
Inside this house, I eat, sleep, visit the laundry room every Sunday afternoon and occasionally do the dishes. I am every roommate’s worst nightmare because I don’t clean and I don’t obsess with neatness or organization.
Mother thought she raised a proper lady. She thought she raised a model of herself. Mother thought her daughter would grow up to be an independent, proper, responsible woman.
The macaronis are ready. The pot of beef is ready. I make the table and we eat. I stare at the bright walls of the kitchen and suddenly I miss mother.