Kitchen Ghost

Kitchen Ghost
By Fred Muratori

After midnight, the wide aluminum pot sidles from its cabinet, fills itself with water, hovers, then sets down on the stove. From my bedroom upstairs I can hear the click-click-click of the burner just before it ignites. A bottle of California chardonnay rises from the wine rack, uncorks itself and bends neck-first to a waiting glass. Scent of onions clearing in butter and olive oil, of garlic, winds through the house. She is hungry again, and craving a simple pasta dish. The water boils, and above it I almost hear her sighing — this fine dinner in the making and no one else to share it. Every night a different dish: sautéed shrimp with wild rice, braised boneless chicken breast, leg of lamb, her favorite. Night after night she tries to lure me from my dreams with her culinary artistry, and sometimes I almost give in. But if I roused myself, carefully felt my passage through the dark rooms and doorways, avoided knocking shins against the furniture's immobile knees and elbows, navigated the narrow stairs without skittering down, backbone on wood, what would I find? An empty table in a silent, nearly odorless kitchen, tile floor pressing its chill upward to my feet, a pile of crusted foil trays in the sink.