To my dearest Kitchen Countertops,
I am sorry.
You, my dears, were created for a higher purpose. Built upon sturdy columns of wood, you stand ready to endure the force of my knife as a chop down the round bulbs of onion and garlic, the sturdy lengths of carrots and celery, the coarse sweetness of ginger. Your ruggedness was meant to endure the pounding of pots and pans, laden mixing bowls, sauced ladles, and battered spatulas.
But unused you set, as I hasten past you, delivering dictation for spelling class or toting clean laundry from the dryer to the living room. You lower yourself to uphold misplaced math books and displaced legos, pastel pink and purple hairbrushes and bottles of ibuprofen. You do your duty quietly, and without complaint.
Yet, I know you aspire to more. You desire to be used for what you were created. You long to feel the heat of a simmering soup, the cold of rare meat, the lightness of fresh cilantro.
You want to cook.
Frankly, so do I.
And I will…eventually. One day I will cook more than a bowl of oatmeal, boil water for more than a cup of tea, slice more than a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. One day I will cook again.
But not today.