Zoe Pian

I wish I could be chicken pieces in the pan, shifted around with care, or chicken wings rubbed vigorously with seasoning, or pea shoots fresh and bright, sautéed with garlic, or porridge stirred regularly, or angry pasta water that you check on every couple of minutes, or maybe a less demanding thanksgiving turkey that nonetheless needs attention at least five times a day, or onion bhajia sizzling in oil that lightly splashes on your apron and heightens your domestic appeal, or meringue, yes, meringue, delicate and cherished–you could make me into a pavlova topped with curd and a berry circle and look at me, really look at me to make sure everything is just right.