Valentine's Day

      There are spots along the left leg of my jeans, now stiffening, from where the pork brine sloshed out of what I had thought was a securely sealed container.  Now, my youngest sister is cheerily letting me know that my shirt is rubbing against the raw meat on the counter.  I step back momentarily, eying the two foot pork loin, but am now unable to maneuver.  The oven is ready outside, potatoes, scrubbed, but now ashy, line the inside edge.  I have already pulled the meat out of its marinade, sliced it strategically, so that it lay almost flat, crammed the briny smelling mixed olive puree into the cracks and tried to crimp the edges back together.  The meat falls limply back to its new default, flat, and I call to my mother.
    "You're sure we don't have any kitchen twine?"
    I don't really have to wait for her affirmative reply.  As far as I know, we never have had any kitchen twine.  I ask, because I would rather hope that some has been spirited into our cupboards than wash my hands and hunt down a suitable substitute. 
    The hunt, once I decide to begin, is quite short.  In a house where four out of six residents crochet, there is never a dearth of yarn.  I grab the first ball that I see in the sewing room drawer, a rough yarn, formerly destined for dishrag and incidentally a bright, sunflower, yellow. 
    Now, the edge of my shirt still dragging over the edge of the log of raw pork, I draw the length of yarn under the meat.  Under, over, cross, pull tight, knot, under, over, cross, pull tight, knot.  I repeat the pattern, down the length, until the former limpness has converted to a compact bundle that is difficult to fold into the horseshoe shape that will allow it to fit into the oven.  It looks like a strange form of caterpillar, but I could care less if it becomes a butterfly, all I require of it is that it taste good roasted. 

    
    Whenever I play in the kitchen, I eventually come to a point where there is nothing more to do but wait.  Sometimes there is clean-up work to be done, the loading of the dishwasher, after letting the dog do a pre-rinse cycle, wiping counters.  Today, everyone is helping, which gets the job done more quickly than it has to be.  I would never complain about help with dirty dishes, but now I feel like I have nothing to do.  I could go sit on the new, chocolate brown, couches and recline while watching the Olympics and I do, but I’m still just waiting. 
    For me, that is the hardest part of any project.  As long as there is active work to be done, visible progress being made, I can be fairly content.  But to wait, with no control over what is occurring? That’s something I’ve never mastered.
    When I tore my ACL last spring, I was fine with waiting for the surgery.  There was full extension and flexion of my leg to regain, I had a semester to finish out, I had my part time job to work into my spare time.  At the beginning of June, I had the surgery.  For a few painkiller blurred days, I was fine with being an invalid.  Once PT began, I was being pushed and gaining ground constantly.  I learned to walk without limping, how to do strange exercises, and regained some of my previous strength.  But when the physical therapist decided I didn’t need any more appointments, the waiting started.  The two activities I was working towards, running and soccer, were still off limits.  There wasn’t anything I could do that felt like progress.  And I lapsed.  I biked fewer times per week, I lifted weights with less frequency, my strange exercises were now normal... and boring. 
    Every time I bake or cook, there is an element of this same long wait sandwiched into whatever time my current project is going to take.  Admittedly, it is easier to overcome when the project is chocolate chip cookies, which only take twelve minutes.  Still, I’ll be looking in the oven at six minutes, at eight minutes, at ten minutes, no matter how many years in sequence in this same oven they have take precisely twelve minutes. 
    Part of me loves this suspense, being left hanging, not knowing the outcome.  The other part of me wishes that life was a novel, where you can skip to the last pages and see if the ending looks promising before allowing the story a grip on you.  I want to work on this, to concentrate on enjoying even the moments in between the high points.  Somedays, I’m better at this than others.  Today, I will enjoy the togetherness of my family around the table, the sight of my mother sewing at the table, my father using the leaf blower to start the oven fire, working against the gusts of wind that are intent on knocking the flames back down to coals.  Today, I will let the suspense sit there, in the background, but only so that it sharpens the other details of the day for me.  Today... but I think I'd better go check the roast.  Who knows? It might be done half-an-hour early.