She breaks down at the kitchen sink and seethes at Ennis. There are no words to describe what he did with his FB.
“Jack Twist. Jack Nasty…” she spits out in her rage.
And, nasty it was.
But, her timing made me wonder, Why here? Why in the kitchen?
Is the kitchen the room in one’s home where all the nastiness occurs?
While at my sister’s house, my BIL searches through a couple of drawers to look for a serrated knife to cut some slices of cake. What he pulls out is not a serrated knife.
This thing is three speeds and a couple of D batteries away from being obscene.
And, it’s in their kitchen.
“What the hell do you do in the kitchen? That is just nasty. Y’all is nas-tay,” I say as I wave my finger, making small circles in the air.
“What is that?” my father asks, adjusting his glasses.
“It’s a fish pounder,” replies my BIL.
“Exactly. Pound her…” I murmur.
My sister turns around from her post at the stove. “Pound her. Ooh, that’s a good one, T,” she giggles.
Years ago, families would congregate around the kitchen. It was the hub of the house. It provided the main source of heat and comfort for members of the household. It was where you felt loved. It’s what made the house a home.
Today, the truth still holds, but doing everything in the kitchen just means something else.
Which reminds me, never eat anything off my sister’s kitchen counters.