My Kitchen

I'm sensing a theme here -- it's either a rant or a rave or music, food or Brigitte. I'm sorry, loyal readers, that it rarely involves Middle Eastern affairs (oh wait, it does!) but this time it's about my ever-suffering Brigitte, and my kitchen.

We kind of agreed, a few months (?) ago that I would be the master of the kitchen. This means that I would do the dishes; fill the water bottles; clean the counter; put everything away nicely.

You know, it's kind of the easy "roommate truce" except in this case, it most definitely is NOT a roommate.

But to tell you the truth, I like it this way. "Hey, I do the laundry! I take care of the bills! I go out and do the shopping! I make your BLTs at 4 o'clock in the morning!"

All true. Everything rings with a certain echo of truth.

But, as I trudge my merry way yet again, filling (or emptying) the dishwasher, checking that everything is in its place and I know where it (whatever it might be) is, I rejoice.

I LIKE the kitchen to be my kingdom. I LIKE that when I go there tomorrow, utensil "A" will be where I put it last night! See! Simple happiness.

But you know, I love most of all that Brigitte allows me to deal with the kitchen as I see fit, (and all she ever does is come into that world and cook her brilliant stuff), the affairs to which I am now committed, and HAPPY to square away, each and every day.

Fuck, I'm hungry. Should I wake her up for a Brigitte BLT?