Pretending to Cook

When I was five, I had the best playset ever.

It lurks in the corners of my mind, throwing up a plywood back, a shiny paper cover, wooden cabinet doors that screamed the seventies. My father fashioned it out of the discards of their kitchen remodel, and I loved to open the doors and shove things onto the shelves.

There was a cooktop, and black temperature knobs. It was better than real, because things cooked so much faster. There was an opening for a sink, and there was space for the refrigerator.

I felt so adult, so grown up there. I'd flip things in my frying pan; I'd make pizzas and cakes, and pour glasses of milk.

I think I got an Easy Bake oven one christmas. It never matched up, despite the ability to actually - well, bake.

A few years ago, I was out in the garden shed (probably looking for one of the sleds), and there, under the boxes, and behind the potting soil was the kitchen. It was much smaller than I remembered it being, and the shiny paper was peeling, and the back had collapsed.

I had the urge to find a frying pan.


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