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Sparkle (4)
It's one of those times you try to stay busy as you flow about the kitchen avoiding politics, sex, and religion. You listen quietly attempting to make polite conversation. You make a simple joke and receive raised eyebrow. You open the cupboard and the Tupperware explodes out across the floor.
The facade of the good housewife has been revealed and you get the burning look of disapproval. It's these looks that tell you that you were never quite suitable, never approved of, and never will be a member of their inclusive tribe.
It's at those times your stomach churns queasy and the tears well up in your eyes. The best way to dodge the rage of emotion is to look into the fridge, take a deep breath, sigh, and grab an apple. It's then you feel the tears no one should see you cry. It is there you grab another apple, another, and another until you have eight perfect red apples lined up across the counter in a strategic row. It is then with your head down you slowly peel each apple and listen to the passing comments.
You feel confident again and attempt to join the conversation. A simple comment is made and with gusto you have insulted another of the tribe without ever thinking twice with the simple words - I think...
You are not supposed to think! You are supposed to be a dutiful housewife, with organized cupboards, who dots on her husband. It is you job if you cannot do these simple tasks then you are unsuitable for him.
It's as you take the knife from the drawer and slowly chop the fresh apple it makes you wonder, "If I'm not suitable? Then who is? Haven't I tried my hardest to please?"
Yet it is never quite adequate to live up to their expectations. It's times like this you reach for the sugar and cinnamon wanting the queasiness to pass from your stomach. You toss the apples in the sugary goodness laying them so beautifully across the pan. A work to be admired knowing the end result will have its glory moment.
It's with one last step you make the crispy topping adding the brown sugar, flour, oatmeal, and butter. It's like a good witch you attempt to cast a magical spell that will ease the home, the tension, and wait for acceptance. You open the oven door, let the spicy aroma envelope your home. It with that aroma you drift with delight in its fragrance.
It is only when you taste it with the hint of butterscotch ice cream melting on top that you can take the comfort from your mother's recipe to remind you that you are good enough. Each sweet morsel takes the anxiety away for that one minute and eases the tension of the room. If only it is for that one special minute...
Do you have food that gives you comfort?
