It is no secret of my disdain for the kitchen and cooking. But it is more than just pure unadulterated hatred. You see, for me the kitchen has always been a source of pain. Not in the form of burns, lacerations or bruises although, more often than not, these do occur during my kitchen time. The pain I am speaking of is pain in my hands thanks to the stirring, lifting, opening, turning, chopping, and other required prep. Pain in my legs and feet from the necessary standing. Pain, pain, pain, pain, pain, all over pain.
At this point some of you may be asking Why? Well, at 18 months old I was diagnosed with Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis. Yeppers. I was a kid trapped in the body of a creaky, stiff joint, painful geriatric slathered in BenGay. I was misunderstood and often mistreated. I was called names and accused of “faking.” But the truth is that it was and is very real. Real pain, real deformity, really miserable. The years of this horrid disease have taken their effect on the form, function and appearance of mainly my hands….
Aren't these babies beautiful?!
…And my feet. Disclaimer: the following is not recommended for visually sensitive individuals or those with perfect body idealistic tendencies.
Hammer Time Baby!
Whoa, now that is some serious mal-function! You tell me that wouldn't produce pain to stand on. C'mon, faking my rear end.
Ok, so you get the picture – literally. Anyway, put the twisted photos out of your mind and let’s get back to my kitchen topic.
I flee from the kitchen. If it means hunger or kitchen, hunger wins hands down. During hunger pangs, I will often envision a personal cook in my kitchen to assist me but then I realize it is just a figment of my imagination. Most likely a hallucination from a starvation induced metabolic imbalance! If my kids are hungry well then, I’ll throw something together with a nice side of Flintstones. I avoid the kitchen like a deer avoids a hunter. But just like a deer can be wooed by those special Buck calls or whatever, I was being wooed into the kitchen by the call of my daughter. She is a very creative individual who actually enjoys the kitchen. That child can rock the baking items like no one’s business.
So we have decided to undertake a project together. I have blown the dust off of my appliances and folks, we will be cooking…yes, cooking. We have purchased several cook books at none other than the GOD of cooking stores, Williams Sonoma…sigh, this place complete with its French speaking customers, inspires me to want to like the kitchen.
During our recent girl-time after Christmas shopping, we hit up Williams Sonoma because it was the one store that wasn’t totally insane with humans, ropes and lines. While in the store my daughter saw the ‘Mastering the Art of French Cooking’ book and her face lit up like a 1,000 watt bulb. Like a true Parisian, she ripped the book off of the shelf and along with it, my heart.
It was settled. We would cook. I, with these mangled, painful hands and feet, would cook. Well, no. I won’t be cooking with my feet but you know what I mean. Stay tuned for our adventures in disabled kitchen land.