The Women Before Me

Inspired by a true event with Goddess Brigid.

Go back to the kitchen--it’s where you belong.

Yeah, yeah.  I’ve heard those words before.  As I’m sure you have, too.  Directed at you, if you’re a woman, or perhaps you’ve seen them on a t-shirt or something.  If you've been alive for more than ten years, you’ve probably heard this.

So, I wasn’t thrilled to be standing in the kitchenette of my apartment.  Barefoot.  Oh, and I was two months pregnant, too.

Ugh.  I’m a stereotype.

I had insisted to make a home-made meal for my parents.  From scratch.  Maybe I wanted to show them just how independent I was.  I wanted something to point to, something that would speak for me, saying “See?  I know I’m only 22 and knocked up, but look how responsible I am!  Look at me, taking care of me.”

I shut my eyes tightly.  I opened them to see the clock on the wall--two hours before they arrived.

“Well, this meal is not going to cook itself,” I said to no one and stepped forward.

I sliced bell peppers.  I diced onions, their pungent smell drawing tears from my eyes.  Lots of tears.  It was the onions, yes, and not the enormous pressure I was under.  Not the baby inside of me.  Not the guy who left me and the loneliness that threatened to drown me.

I wiped my tears with my wrist and put a pot on the hot stove.

No more feeling sorry for myself.

I drizzled in olive oil in a circular motion.  Clockwise to bring happiness to me, counterclockwise to take sadness away.

Once the oil was hot, thin and watery, I gathered the onions in my fist and threw them in.  They hit the pan with a hissssss.  And their soft whispers entered into me, hissss pssst psssst, and I was lifted from the space where I stood.

Hissss pssst pssssst my grandmother’s pot had also whispered, and hissss pssst psssst had my great-grandmother’s whispered to her.  And beyond that I traveled, and hisss psssst pssssst had my ancestors’ cauldrons whispered into attentive ears.

And the sweet scent of caramelized onions floated up to appreciative noses, who belonged to women whose bellies rumbled with hunger, moved with new life, churned with creativity.

And the women kneeled before the hearth like it was an altar, the fire drawing the sweat from their foreheads in the summer, the fire keeping them warm in the winter.  The sounds of crackling, wood splitting in the fire, just another melody in the dance they would engage in.

Some water, some meat, some vegetables.  The skirts of their dresses flowing as they stepped with bare feet to the rhythm of one-two-three, one-two-three, back and forth, grabbing and adding ingredients they had gathered from their gardens, from their neighbors, from a small market nearby.

Faster and faster the dance would progress, the bare feet shuffling back and forth before the hearth, and the vegetables would go in, the spices would go in, the old little lamb they had slaughtered would go in.  Stir, stirring, stirring… Clockwise to bring in happiness, counterclockwise to take sadness away.

The buzzer on my front door slammed me back down into the moment.  In front of me I stirred a pot full of onions, bell peppers, potatoes, beef cubes.  I had shaken in herbs, I had shaken in spices, I had shaken in salt and pepper and sweat.

I was catching my breath.

In a moment I had lived a thousand lives, a long chain whose links began long ago, and stretched all the way into the present moment, into me, into the little life inside of me at the time.

Maybe I did belong in the kitchen at times.  At the times when I wanted to create with my own hands.  At the times when I wanted to nurture.  At the times when I wanted to move to the rhythm of sizzling onions and aromatic steam.  At the times when I wanted my dance partner to be the scents twisting up from the pots, curling all around my body, hugging me, entering me, enticing me ‘till my tummy rumbled with longing and wanting.

Yes, there was magic in the kitchen.  There always had been.

Too bad some men would never know.

They'll just say go back to the kitchen, where you belong.

 

YG

Author's Note

Thanks to anyone who takes the time to read and review my short story :-) I appreciate any and all feedback. This story was inspired a real experience with Goddess Brigid.

Reviews

[TheRavensWoods]

I really enjoyed this story! I love the idea that women through the ages, through our blood lines have been working in the kitchen, creating meals with hard work, sweat and tears. I love the empowerment your main character found by cooking and choosing her life path for herself. Beautifully crafted story with a wonderful much needed message.

[Coyote Poetry]

I did enjoy the story dear Yari. I loved the kitchens and the voices of my grandmother. Your story took me back to big meal, happy voices and long dinners. Thank you for sharing the outstanding story.
Coyote

[Rye]

WOW! Now I really enjoyed this one, This is really powerful most enjoyed

[The Twin Arenas]

I've always thought it was funny when men say things like, "go back to the kitchen, it's where you belong," because if that's true, then it's true for the entire universe.
This was great.