Alison in the Kitchen
I used to watch her from across the room as she prepared dinner. How beautiful she was in all her subtle movements of dicing and stirring. Her hair would gently fall to the sides of her face, as her eyes were transfixed downward towards the cutting board or stove. From time to time, she would look up to see what I was doing, only to see that I was watching her. A smile would come to her face, and her eyes would shine. Oh how her eyes shined.
She would prepare this killer meatloaf with shoyu and mayo. It was so moist even three days later. She would cook miso soup, adding fine cut green onion and tiny little cubes of tofu. I still don’t know how she cut those cubes so small. She made these delicious fried patties with a recipie of egg, tuna, tofu, and green onion. She called them Tuna-tofu-patties, but I refered to them as Alison-cakes.
I would watch her hands as she made musubi. Her little hands moved like those of a sculpter, molding and forming the rice into a piece of artwork. She would then dip her fingertips into a bowl of water and wrap a sheet of nori around the rice so effortlessly.
Sometimes I would walk into the kitchen, asking if she needed any help. I knew she would decline my assistance, but I would ask anyway. I would grab another beer for her out of the refrigerator, and place it beside her near empty. From behind, I would wrap my arms around her and gently pull her body next to mine. I would whisper in her ear, and her head would tilt up and to the side, and that smile would once again come to her face.