The kitchen is our place of refuge and rejuvenation. You’ll often find us there hovering over the stove, washing dishes or simply sitting together, waiting for bread to bake, on the thick checkered Tibetan rug we put into the middle of the room for exactly that purpose. It’s where we go when we’re content and happy, and where we go when the world doesn’t make sense.
I hadn’t considered our kitchen as a refuge until I reflected on this past weekend. We found out about the shootings in Connecticut on our way home from the market on Saturday morning and it was Sunday night before we left the kitchen long enough for the dishes to dry. I roasted sweet potatoes and made black butter while Chris labored over a seafood stock. I made bread, Chris made fried rice. We baked gingerbread dutch babies for Sunday morning breakfast. Our comfort foods.
I don’t know what to say that hasn’t been said or that wouldn’t make me want to bolt into Will’s room right now, pull him out of his crib and hold him in my arms, breathing in his every exhale, until morning. No one should ever have better access to assault rifles than to whatever level of support, therapy or supervision they personally require. No child should fear being gunned down in their classroom with a weapon originally designed for use in combat.
Yesterday I was back out on the outskirts of Delhi doing a few meetings and taking photos at a school in a waste pickers’ slum. Thinking of the kids in Connecticut and then hanging out with a group of hungry kids for whom their school–with its dirt floors and no electricity, is the nicest building they know–well it’s a lot to consider.
On the way home yesterday afternoon we passed fields of mustard flowers in bloom and I asked our driver to pull over. He found a space off the road about an 1/8 of a mile away from the field and I tore out of the back seat and ran down the road to take a few photos of the flowers.
Afterwards he reprimanded me a little, asking me why I didn’t ask him to turn around and go back instead of running to the field myself. “Ma’am he said, with real concern on his face, “this is not a good area, that’s not safe. Please don’t do that again.”
Oh how I wanted to tell him that no, I–a grown woman with strong legs and a heavy camera lens was safe in broad daylight–it seemed to be every child around me who wasn’t.
Less downer-ness and more photos coming soon…as well as that sourdough post I promised.