This afternoon I found myself tending to three pots.
A roasted butternut squash bisque.
A seven-bone chuck roast.
And a pork chilli.
The house smelled amazing, and I sauntered and sautéed my way around the kitchen like a culinary conductor.
Just before the grand finale – when all of the dishes would wrap at once and I would put them all away, the bisque got rowdy.
A bit of the scalding concoction spit out of the pot, smattered across the wall, and burnt my wrist.
My critic took no time surfacing.
See, this is what happens. You do too much and you get burned. You’re supposed to go slow.
And, I do stop. Breathe. Turn down the heat. Find the ice.
I tend to my wound, but I don’t close the kitchen.
The critic is too quick to dismiss what’s really happening.
Truth is, I WANT three pots at once. The real me, LOVES three pots at once. Even when it means I get burned. Because honestly, the burn is not so bad. It’s practically already healed – because even with three pots going, the real me knew enough to tend to it right away.
And the bisque.
And the chili.
All three dishes finish right on time.
All are very different, and equally divine.
So, tonight, that critic – she’s got nothing on me.