the nesting urge has moved to the kitchen. but i can't cook.

i want a house. it doesn't need to be big. in connecticut maybe? just outside san francisco? you tell me where, i'll go.

i want the kitchen to have black and white tiled floors. with a cuisinart on the counter. and none of that terrible fluorescent lighting. i'll employ lamps if i have to. or chinese lanterns. and i will make guacamole from scratch. always. because, this i can do. and a three tiered apron will i wear as i sit in front of the oven, willing the bread to rise. you will peek your head in and laugh. and i will throw mine back. and there in our tiny kitchen under the christmas lights and hanging pans, we will dance. circling ever closer to the curly-corded phone that you will raise to your ear and dial for take-out. and then, i will laugh. and you will catch me mid-guffaw. with a kiss. and with that kiss you will swallow my laugh. and sustenance will i have provided.

and that will be our kitchen.