: Keep the Home Fries Burning :

an excerpt by Bill Christophersen

 

You are doing your assiduous distaff thing, slicing

Idahos, dicing scallions, vacuuming the hautboy, what-all.  I

love these peppy kitchen-and-living-room scenarios.  The

whiff of an ironing board in heat; the subdued twilight

of a punched-up microwave, photons strafing the

left-over mac-and-cheese although nothing at all

seems to be happening–these drive my idle boat

between nostalgia and a sort of Westinghouse pavilion

awe.  Not that I partake in such domestic initiatives

myself (being one of those who buys takeout and waits

for the tumbleweeds to come blowing down the hall, evoking

some whistled Sons of the Pioneers theme, before plucking

broom from closet or dustpan from wherever it’s gotten to).

You, on the other hand, like imposing yourself on your wares,

buffing formica to a spanking, lapidary shine, making

the oven gestate and the garbage-disposal unit in the drain

suck and gurgle on potato skins.  I relish these enterprises

from a distance, whereas you prefer to have your hand

on the tiller, or what do you call that clutch-like apparatus

that turns the kitchen sink into a slurping, mechanical maw, boisterous

and dangerous?  Go ahead:  Indulge yourself! I’m right behind,

savoring the sponge-crunching, cachepot-dusting, ratty-doormat-beating.