Home Is Where The Casserole Is

Mr. L & I are on day 6 of cohabitation. I will have to say, being a newbie to cohabitation; it is good and weird at the same time. Change in general causes me major inner turmoil, so considering the magnitude of this life change, I have a hard time feeling total peace. Mr. L has compared my attitude to that of my cat when faced with change; we both want to hide under the bed for a few days.

I felt particularly peculiar on Sunday night. Mr. L & I had worked our fingers to the bone all weekend long, and as the sun set on our little home, the weird feelings of ‘what do I do now,’ started to wash over me. Though all of my stuff was in the house, the house had yet to feel like home. I tried to relax, alone, in my room. I tried to watch tv and pretend it was just another Sunday night. I tried to do laundry. But, everything I tried to do felt insanely strange, after all, there was no going home because I was already there. I started to panic.

Many times when I am in panic mode, I feel the need to cook. Something about the process of preparing food is like taking a big dose of valium to me. Mr. L’s sister had given us a box of veggies earlier in the weekend, so I grabbed my ipod, took my place in the kitchen, and decided to whip up some squash casserole.

As I sliced the squash and onions and listened to one of my favorite albums, a familiar feeling poured over me. The action of cooking made me feel at home. After all, a woman’s home is where she cooks. As I sautéed, greased, pre-heated, and baked, my body familiarized itself with this new space. A woman who cooks moves in the kitchen as if it is her dance partner, and on Sunday night we performed a tentative, but tender routine.

Feeling uplifted after putting the squash in the oven, I jumped on the couch next to Mr. L and told him I was sorry for my strange mood earlier in the evening. He asked me if I was feeling better, to which I replied, “Yes. I just had to cook it out.”

And then a familiar smell drifted from the kitchen as the casserole began to bake. It smelled like home.