What was wrong with me?
That was the mantra I continued to ask myself as I stood slightly hunched over scrubbing down the benches and throwing the tiny bits of scattered food barely visible to the eye in the bin.
It was like I had suddenly became a radar for mess and all I wanted to do was clean it.
And I wasn’t just enjoying cleaning, but I was deep in the throes of cooking love.
The asparagus were sizzling in the pan, lightly seasoned with a dash of butter thrown in at the end.
The salad was ready to go, I had mad my own lemon cumin dressing and after the haloumi had been pan fried for a couple of minutes and thrown on top of the salad, I was ready to produce a plate of outstanding food for my family.
Tomorrow’s meal was all planned out. I even had an apple and almond fancy-pants dessert prepared and ready to eat after my homemade potato, pine nut and blue cheese pizza
There was something really wrong with this picture. Someone other than me had possessed my body and was running the show.
Was Masterchef to blame? All the ladies that I have met online who just seem to have conquered family life?
I stood in the kitchen alone, the spatula in one hand, gin and tonic in the other, Angus and Julia stone bellowing out from my iPod speakers and the waves, which could be barely seen, pounded onto shore through the kitchen window.
Now I understand why women like to cook. The one hour of the day that could maybe spend in pure isolation. The time to just mellow out.
For the first time in my life I saw myself actually being that woman who was totally in control of the house, the children, and the domesticated life and loving it.
It got me thinking.
Thinking a lot. Have I always really been this way but have never been given the chance to show it? Would I rather this than that?
To be honest, I’ve never really had a place of my own. I mean a house, with lots of space, separate functional rooms, and a yard to run around in. It’s always been cramped city apartments where the bathroom and kitchen battled it out for space or a shared house with 25 backpackers, half of whose name you never knew.
I was never given the chance to be domesticated. To have nice things and wide open spaces. I think it really suits me now that I’ve had it for a night.
For the first time ever I get why a lot of people would choose this life over travel.
Trust me though in a week’s time, I’ll be changing my mind again.
Blowing in the wind, that’s me.
For now I’ll just love being the domesticated Goddess.
Or is this just the gin talking now?