Just finished cooking, I ladled a small bowlful of the lentil soup. Rather than wait until properly sitting and consuming like a lady, I stood and held my hour-and-a-half creation and now — too eager, too hungry — I demanded a taste.
I slammed the bowl back onto the table and stepped back, while a bridge of tears formed along my lower lashes.
No, the soup wasn’t bad; actually, the soup tasted great. (Thank you, Jamie Oliver!) But it was hot. Like, beyond “Fuck, is my tongue okay?” hot and more toward, “Do I still have a fucking tongue?!!??!111” hot.
My mouth felt scalded. I mean, as it should. The lentil soup was boiling off the burner and into my mouth in a hot ten seconds. What the fuck else was I to expect? A senseless and impulsive action that garnered every bit of my shock.
Through blurry eyes, I blinked away stray tears and pouted at my steaming bowl of soup. I crossed my arms, officially forming a standoff between this soup (of which is not cooling fast enough) and myself (hungry, bossy stomach included). Patience, I thought.
My eyes darted around the kitchen, the setting for which my patience is tested. Rogue vegetable choppings decorated the counter, and dirty dishes needed to be cleaned. Empty shot glasses by the sink tell a story of the weekend. I am tired and hungry, and the clock on the oven showed it was a little past seven o’clock. A quick calculation of my total cook time compelled me to end the standoff.
That, and Patience, which I invited lovingly into my kitchen, is being an uncommitted little bitch.
Patience is waiting to find a good lentil soup recipe, instead of choosing the first Google result in-between assignments at work. Patience is waiting in a line at Trader Joe’s during a mad rush of middle-aged San Francisco mothers, who’ve grown to become experts of patience through their diligent practice of childrearing. (In fact, such patience displayed by such mothers in comparison looks foreign on my face.)
Further, patience is the careful dicing of the vegetables and the churning of Jamie Oliver’s recommended red and green lentils until they softened. Most important of all, patience is choosing not to order food-to-go (read: a juicy cheeseburger) in favor of the virtuous task of cooking myself something nutritious.
But, somewhere between adding more water to the thickening soup and serving myself a bowl for dinner, I outgrew such patience. Patience has blood on its hands now, for my seemingly charred tastebuds render me incapable of enjoying the fruits of my labor.
What little ounce of lady-like behavior left in me now evaporated by the boil of my anger. Appropriately, my tongue — although burnt — remained knife-sharp and yelled for Patience to go fuck itself.
Bravery fueled by impatience, I attempt another spoonful. Gloriously yum, but painfully ow.