Imitation

She stands in the crammed kitchen with pots and pans ready to be filled with colorful fruits and vegetables for the scrumptious evening meal. The stove is on expelling flames that flicker and lick the bottoms of the pans. The butter already bubbles and the sound fills the air with what seems to be like water coming out of a shower head. As she has done millions of times she slides the knives out of the holsters and starts mechanically slicing the ingredients of the protein filled meal. The vegetables fall neatly into a pile that she picks up in one swoop of the hand and plops into the suddering fury of the pot. Without looking, she slides the knife into the sink turns on the water for a split second and then lays it back down onto the grey-studded white counter. As the knife found it's sliding stop, it was time to set the table. Sure-footed, she wiped her hands on the green apron and stepped into the dining room. From there, the plates were taken out of their nestled corner in the cupboard. Their glazed surfaces flickered in the light of day and warned everyone in the vicinity that they were about to be placed on the glass dinner table. The plates clanged as they were settled onto the table top. Each one in front of a gentle-curved wooden chair. The chairs seemed ready for the routine setting of people as this was always the time when dinner was served. 6:00 sharp or else phones were ringing all over Shekou to find out where the lost family member was dwelling.



The plates were in place, and now the glasses and the utensils. They had their own designated portions of space in the house. The glasses behind a glass sliding door, the forks and knives in a drawer with compartments purposely chosen. The blue holding rack was filled to the brim with eating tools that always found a way to end up of the table and later on the counter ready to be washed. She selected the rights forks, the right knives and placed them in an orderly fashioned manner next to the previously set plates. She stands next to the table; lets out a sigh, scratches her head, looks at the clock, (5:50) and goes back to the desklike storage closet. The glasses clash against each other as she picks them up. A glassy "ting" reverberated through the house just loud enough to shock you in a doze. A pleasant tone still rings through the house as she walks back to the table and precisely sets the glasses about two inches to the right of the plates. Of course they needed to be filled with water later. Just when you think the table is set, place mats come out of a hidden drawer that could be missed even if intense inspection was instigated. Round-shaped and rainbow colored, they bring the needed color into the room after a hard day of work after school. What was yet to come would do more than any other the well placed utensil or accessory can add to the room.

The food was ready and a split second after the cooking alarm rang in all of it's rackety brassness, the pans were off of the now burning hot cooking pits. She walked carefully as to not trip on the nifty doorstep. Her eyes diverted from the ground to the table. She couldn't keep from letting a droplet of sweat run over her wrinkling skin. She set the pans on the placemats and put both of her ring-covered hands on her hips. She lets out a sigh of relief, wipes the sweat of her breath and slowly turns on one toe-nail painted foot to look at the time. 5:59. "Right on time", her body and slight head nod signals to anybody watching. The food that has taken thirty minutes to cook was gone in ten, and the satisfaction in our stomachs sounded. A deep rumble from inside was inevitable. My mother is the best house cook in the world no matter how many loving mothers there are. An hungry human is an angry human, and nobody is angry after they have eaten at the Riemens' knowing that the best of care was taken to prepare the luscious recipes that we all love. Job well done. As the sun settles into the pocket of the distant land, she knows she needs to go through the routine once more. The setting of the table, and the cooking of the food. No frustration can be found however, because I know she loves to do it.