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Posted on 3rd February 2015


I'm cooking. Kind of. Is it still called cooking when you're hunched over a hot plate on a cement floor and the only two ingredients are water and whatever was in that plastic bag you ripped open with your teeth? Is water an ingredient?=

Students, I am a teacher, but I've got a lot to learn. I grew up – not in a gilded cage, exactly - more like a gilded aquarium. Constantly watched. Only enough space for the fish to pretend it’s free as it hides in its tiny plastic castle, dreaming it’s the king of infinite space. Or in my case, queen. In my aquarium, I didn’t have to cook or think or do much of anything else for myself. It’s time I learned. And it’s time I stopped being afraid.

Ever since I was kidnapped at 11, the fear was always there, like a backdrop that the rest of my life took place in front of. Every new room I walked into, I was always cataloging the terrible things that could happen to me in that room. And my first question, part of the backdrop, was always the same: am I going to die in this room?

I never consciously knew that I was asking that question until the day I found I wasn’t asking it. The day I walked into this room. My new home. And you know, chances are now better than ever that this actually will be the room that I die in. But I know something more important than that. I know that this is the room where I will truly live. High ceilings. A woman can think here.

But there are some very important questions that I still need to answer. Like, is Ramen supposed to be this crunchy? Do I just dump this flavor packet in my mouth, or what? Send recipes.

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