Home Ec

Maybe she doesn’t need recipes. She’s alone with the yellow mixer and splintered wood spoons, the television off, her parents gone for the night. In chemistry she never misses a step; smoke flows scheduled from her beakers in elegant script. At ballet she leaps with pointed toes, rounds her elbows, lands when the other girls do. Now she lines ingredients on the counter like an army: tangerines, brown sugar, Triple Sec slinked and sipped from the liquor shelf. She thinks nothing comes naturally, but she’d like to be wrong. The measuring cup she lowers into the flour floats past the Big Dipper coming up. When she cracks the first egg, a jagged W appears like Cassiopeia in her butter-flecked hands.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s