White tube socks hop in time across the kitchen’s un-swept floor while the sounds of the Violent Femmes scratch at the walls.
Tan legs clad only in self-adorned tattoos sway back and forth as spices are chosen haphazardly. She wore an oversized Grateful Dead crewneck—and nothing else.
It was March, so of course she was making soup. She hummed along as she tried to think of what to call this one: cream-based—rosemary, garlic, butter, onions, and chicken. The only thing she was certain of is that she had to make bread.
With dough rising and hips grooving, a pot on the stove simmered as something was thawing under running water in the sink.
Why can’t I get just one kiss?
She actually laughed.
With her shoulder, she wiped the silly little tears from her eyes as she cut the last of the onion. She scraped it into the pot.
She shook her mess of curls in time, and began slicing the chicken garlic—different from the pot garlic, which of course is pressed.
Nothing I can say when I’m in your thighs.
Thighs—
Chicken!
The pan sizzles as the herbs and poultry get to know each other. The wooden stirring spoon and the tasting ladle drum a little too loud on the oven door.
As if she hasn’t already poured a glass of wine, she shuffles to the cupboard, then to the fridge—that’s where the white is. Some for the pot, then some for her.
Honestly, it’s only logical to deglaze the pan after the chicken is done...
With a wild grin she pours a single bowl and bows
Add it up! Add it up!
