In my kitchen, surrounded by all my tools that I am picked to create nourishment, while also creating joy for myself, and those I offer my food. I love standing at my kitchen sink and looking out over part of my gardens, I’m staring at a real life snow globe. My sink is as old as the house, 1904. Steel. Cool to touch. Comforting almost to my hands that have lasted, almost 7 decades. I can reach out and touch the utensils my mother once he used to her kitchen. Where is she her family until the day she died at the kitchen table.
I used to think what made me femme was found in my make up and wardrobe. But I see now it is here at my kitchen window. You can strip me all my make up and put me in different clothes and I’d still be me, standing here…
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Pole bachit, a lis chuye.
The field sees, the forest hears
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