A Man in My Kitchen

I’ve been thinking a lot about whether or not I’ll ever date again.

It’s not for lack of trying, because I’ve tried internet dating and straight up giving my phone number to interesting single men and even asking men out myself instead of waiting for them to ask.

There’s a strong possibility that I’ll just stay single for the rest of my life and after a lot of struggle and a ton of tears, I’ve come to peace with that option.

But I can’t help but think about what kind of man would be enough for me.

One that would dance party just because it’s Tuesday. One that would laugh at my (mostly terrible) jokes. Be content to sit on summer Saturday mornings in the backyard, drinking coffee and not saying a word.

One that would love our farmers market just as much as I do.

One that would know when I get a bug up my butt about something, to just stand back and let me spin it out.

One that would tell me about his quirks. Let me (at least) cheer him on in his hobbies. One that would let me in, instead of keep me at arms’ length. One that would allow me to see his soft spots and want to see mine. One that would allow me to support him.

I want a man who I will allow in the kitchen at the same time as me.

Allow me to explain.

The kitchen is my safe space in all of the homes I have lived in. It is where I go when all of the emotions are too big, and where I go when I need to figure something out. It’s where I hammer out dough. Where I learned to poach eggs properly. Where I learned how to make a smooth, non-grainy buttercream frosting.

It’s the one room I look at very closely when searching for a new home. The last one I pack up before we leave.

And I absolutely cannot stand when people are in the kitchen when I’m cooking. It’s my “tree fort”. And most people make me want to pull up the ladder and hang a “GO AWAY” sign.

I don’t want your fingers in the pots of whatever is bubbling on the stove, I don’t want you eating my mise en place. I don’t want you moving everything I have carefully (and usually chaotically) arranged to try and find tea.

I love you, but I do not want to answer a million questions about why I am using a wet pastry brush to wash the sides of a pot while I make caramel, or why I stand on one foot when I stir pots.

It’s my personal space. Yes, the entire kitchen is my personal space.

I don’t know where it stems from, but I am super territorial about the kitchen. I’ve had to physically bite my tongue in the past when I’ve shared kitchen space with multiple people. From roommates, to boyfriends mothers’ to the one boyfriend I had with better cooking skills than mine, I literally bit my tongue to keep from telling people to get out of my kitchen.

I smacked one boyfriend’s hand with a spoon when he tried to stick his car-greased fingers in my gravy on Thanksgiving. That relationship ended three days later.

So if I ever find a man who can come in the kitchen, grab a spoon and taste whatever I am making….that’s the guy for me.

This post was written as a part of the NaBloPoMo, a daily blogging journey I am committing to in November 2017.