I thought that making a favourite breakfast dish for the Frumettes might be help with the current state of things.
One slight problem — I’m not in my own kitchen.
I really didn’t think that it would make that much of a difference. Being in someone else’s kitchen, that is. And it isn’t as if I’m in a complete stranger’s kitchen; it’s my mother’s kitchen. In the house in which I was reared.
Made no matter, though. I was still competely out of my element here. First of all, things have moved. I don’t mean to imply that the measuring cups have gotten up and moved from the cabinet to the left of the sink to the one on the other side of the dishwasher of their very own accord. [Not they couldn’t; just that they didn’t…]. So not only am I not in my own space, but this once-familiar kitchen is no longer as familiar.
And the utensils are different. Different pans, different stove, different everything.
Even though I was using the same ingrediants — even the secret ones — that have been passed down from generation to generation, the pancakes were just. plain. awful.
Some of them looked fine, but tasted strange.
Others were misshapen, but slightly more edible.
People ask how the kids and I are doing with this transition. We are out of our “little home,” but our new home isn’t ready for us yet. We are staying in BubbeGiraffe and ZaydeGiraffe’s house. We are, as MamaBear, z”l, used to say, neither here nor there. And most of the time, we are just. plain. awful. too.
Some days we look calm, cool, and collected, but are a gooey mess inside.
Other days we are disheveled and with a crazed look in our eyes, but pensive within.
Like the pancakes.
And so, I resolve to avoid any further attempts in the kitchen until I am in my own kitchen…in our own home. And… I resolve to cut the Frumettes a bit of slack. They are being uprooted from all they have known and moved to a new and strange place. The outbursts, crying jags, and overall moodniness is to be expected. And trying to pretend that it’s not is foolish and just leads to more gooey mess.
Remembe(RED) is a memoir meme. This week’s prompt was to write a post that either starts or ends with the words “Lesson learned.” Word limit: 400 words. The perfect opportunity to address the tumult that is surrounding us as we enter the final countdown before The Big Move. As always, constructive criticism is welcomed!