So comes the word.
There is a safe haven from the swirling miasma of Beck and Bachmann and Caribou Barbie: making dinner.
Making dinner, I tell you--making dinner!
Leveling a cup of flour, breading the chicken and steaming the broccoli. It's beautiful, really. And so goddamn satisfying: You cook, you serve, the people eat and everything is as it should be. All the boxes are checked, neat as you please.
The mere idea of Wesson oil makes me inflate with a joyous sigh. A rubber spatula is a placating miracle.
Deliver unto me a vapid Stepfordian life! Dissipate the black cloud of Limbaugh from my life. Let me acquiesce. Allow me to flip an omelet with ease, courtesy of a girl named Pam.
Hand me a can of Campbell's condensed cream of mushroom soup and 20 minutes later, I shall present you with a platter of Chicken Rotini Supreme worthy of the pages of Family Circle, Redbook or Woman's World.
I turn on the kitchen stereo. Burt Bacharach and Dione Warwick pour from the speakers like Heinz Gravy over meatloaf as I slide the 4-quart Corning Ware casserole dish from the shelf and turn to the world of simmering, braising and stirring occasionally.
Heal me. Absolve me. Free me from the talons.