Kitchen Paragraph

I drop a glob of jelly and pulp into a mug of steaming water and turn it into a yellow whirlpool of citron tea. Then I drink it right away and burn my tongue, which is kind of sad, considering that I’ve broken my two year old leg, scratched up my face from acrobatic monkey bar feats, and gotten all cut up and bruised from off-roading on my bike, proudly displaying my battle scars, and here I am with a much less glorious tongue burn. So, I mask the burn with cookies, and watch as the crumbs fall next to the scratches and stains on our white table. I think that the stain right in front of me is from a ring of spilled coffee. No one is really sure who spilled the coffee and none of us are willing to clean up a mess that isn’t ours. That stain’s just going to stay there until someone--probably me or my dad--attacks it with a scrubber and cleaner.

To the left of the table is our old oven. Most of the scars on skin from hot metal have faded--the only scars are on the oven itself. Some areas have a darker brown or black tinge, maybe from the the times my dad broiled fish or baked tender holiday turkeys and hams, or maybe from the times I made Fathers’ Day or birthday butter mochi, experimental pies, or masses of cookies for giving away. The handles have a light dusting of rust here and there, and, considering that the chips of paint can barely stay on our wall and that the floor tiles are always loosening from their spots, I’m just glad that the handles are fully attached.

A line of cabinets and countertop leads a trail to the sink, where little flecks of rust and small patches of soap scum mark the many dishwashing sessions. A couple of ants are wandering on it--I’m not sure why because there aren’t any food remnants in the sink. They just know that we’re bound to slip up some time. Those ants are just as bad as hungry brothers, just pacing back and forth and scavenging for a snack. I guess I won’t kill the ants this time. 

Right next to the sink is the knife holder. My favorite is knife is on the left, two from the top. It has some oval marks and is evidently from Spain, but I really don’t care about that. I’m drawn to its sharpness. It has slashed and severed to prove its worth. With every cut I make to food, I enjoy the swift, smooth motion. There’s also the serrated knife that my sister tried to use to cut my bangs once. She denies it, but I’m pretty sure it happened. One day, she just said something like, “Let me cut your bangs with the knife.” 

So, of course, in my typical younger sister fashion, I said, “Ummmmm. I don’t know, but, well, OK.” It actually kind of hurt because the knife wasn’t that sharp and it felt like the knife was pulling at my hair. Maybe that’s the true reason I dislike dull knives. So anyway, we just gave up  because it didn’t work, and that’s the only reason my parents never found out.

Next to the knives, t

here’s a small army of soap and detergent bottles. Two are full, some are half full, and one is nearly empty one. Since we’re cheap Chinese, we obviously won’t just throw away a perfectly good soap bottle. No one wants to refill it, though. I guess that sums up my family--stained tables and empty soap bottles.