refrigerate until ready to use.

I am at home in the kitchen.

My ambitions range far beyond, and I am at home in environments many would not consider "homey", but these truths do not preclude my being at home in the room that, in the past half-century, has become emblematic of every horror perpetrated upon womanity over the previous two millennia.

I cook well, and often, though more often than not, rather messily. A good risotto needs to bless the range-top every now and again. My only reservation about cooking for the ones I love is that I wish my services not be received with the air of entitlement that has so often inspired my wrath at holilday get-togethers. (I am equally at home in debate.)

Yet this isn't the kitchen of my heart, for that lies thousands of miles from now or several years from here, give or take a you or a me or an us or a we.

Give or take a few truths that may never see the light that pops on every time the refrigerator door opens.

I was not alone when I took this picture, though that you cannot see.

I will not curse the camera for failing to capture my company. With or without photographic evidence,

on some days, I can stare at that door and see someday written all over it.