The room, like the cupcake tins, is dusted with flour. The surface has acquired that extra slick consistency that little particles add to shined granite. The island counter-top is gray speckled granite, or it was before it was assaulted by the baking weapons and heavy artillery. Now, it has the look of a light snow fall, one that would have disappointed her now grown children as they buttoned up for the bus stop. On top of the snow are metal sleds for cookies and a red ceramic bowl dripping with batter.
The bowl holds a spatula rather than swirls from a handheld mixer. That’s what you get with time. Hand mixed batter has settled in droplets into new area codes. They would have had a street named after them had the snow plow not come along and washed the slush away. The batter softens into the green checked washcloth as it is rinsed out into the large kitchen sink. The sink’s stainless steel sides are sprayed in the action. Eventually, water mixes with soap; some bubbles form and float to the ceiling.
The ceiling is masked with a fresh coat of white paint. There are not any cobwebs in the corners of the dark sea green walls, none that the bright lighting shows anyway. I am sure they are in attendance like the few crumbs that modestly hide from the broom. Some blend in well with the floor tiles of gray, black, and white. Others, the lady’s aging eyes just don’t see. She’s concentrating on her baking.
No comments:
Post a Comment