The Process of Breaking Free

Time spent in a kitchen is therapy and every task completed is equivalent to an hour on the couch. Bertha is past due for a long session. She plans accordingly and tells her husband they will be having a homemade Italian meal for dinner. He does not listen as usual; either that or he chooses not to respond. There is not much of a difference. Without a word in her direction, he leaves for work, not bothering to make sure the old wooden door is fully closed behind him. Bertha locks herself into her homely retreat and, leaning against the door, closes her eyes. Bertha has been waiting for this solitude all weekend and, at long last, takes her first full breath since Friday.

Bertha puts on her frilly white apron. She wears it with such frequency that she might as well not bother taking it off. She is aware of the ritual’s futility, yet she continues it, nonetheless. Like her, the apron is seemingly plain and unremarkable – some might say classic. However, there is a little more substance than what first meets the eye. Like Bertha, her apron has been through years of constant use, the resulting wear skillfully masked and only to be detected by those with a keen eye. This apron cares for Bertha as well as she cares for it. Bertha treats her apron like the child she never had, magically returning it to the original sparkling white after every mess and gently mending every tear, no matter how slight. The apron returns the favor. It is always there to hug Bertha tightly throughout her lengthy kitchen therapy sessions, to be an outlet for her rage when it needs to be washed, and to soak up her tears when they are long overdue.

Lovingly wrapped in the embrace of her dear apron, Bertha begins the meal preparation with the bread dough. For Bertha, making dough is how she makes peace. As she mixes and kneads, the memories flit through her mind, one at a time, and she fends them off, burying them into the strong glutinous structure of the dough. They remain trapped in the sticky web of flour, water, salt, and yeast until they evaporate off with the water as the bread bakes. Bertha’s bread is known to rise an incredible amount.

“The home is no place for relaxing,” Bertha remembers the phrase her mother uttered in response to hearing Bertha’s concerns years ago. If not at home, where can I relax? Bertha’s mother died at age fifty-five. Bertha has heard that with each generation, people become faster and more efficient. If that applies to the end of one’s suffering, Bertha has less than thirteen years left. Bertha wonders, knowing she can never learn the answer, if her mother would have lived longer if she had disregarded her own advice. If only she had valued herself.

Bertha punches down the dough and folds it once more before she allows it the time that she desperately desires for herself – time to relax. She spent as much of the weekend as she could outside, in hopes of avoiding his drunken temper. She knows she is safe collecting bright red tomatoes from her garden, thriving despite the negativity that surrounds it and situated far enough from the house that his unstable legs could not reach it even if they tried. Lucky for the garden, Bertha’s husband has never entered it. Her plants have only ever felt the nurturing touch of Bertha’s own work-worn hands. She now begins to transform her beautiful fruits into a sauce, with the intent of making it thick enough to trap her sorrows.

Bertha knows how to sharpen a knife. She has the skills, she has the equipment, and she has the time, but she keeps her knives dull. Sharp knives would be too tempting. Her will power is strong, but to make things easier on herself, she keeps her knives struggling to cut a peach. This practice has its benefits. A dull knife is an excuse to cry in the kitchen with witnesses; the only explanation she needs to provide is an onion. A dull knife also makes cutting tomatoes a trying task to pour effort into. What safer way to exert aggression than simply cutting tomatoes? Bertha has planned this meal deliberately and now has a large pot to fill with tomatoes and only a small, dull knife to cut them with. She has a lot of emotional energy that she needs to redirect. At times, it is easier for Bertha to use her hands to rip the tomatoes apart. She is gradually gaining more nerve and she is now willing to do whatever is necessary.

Tomatoes, basil, black pepper, salt, and a small amount of water fill the pot to its brim. The sauce is simmering and Bertha, feeling both tired and increasingly energized, is quickly on to the next task. Meatballs are his favorite, she thinks, but she cannot be sure. She knows they were at one time anyway, but that was long ago. She also loved him at one time. Things change. Bertha collects her ingredients and starts to chop some vegetables into miniscule pieces. He might not like this many vegetables in the meatballs, but it does not matter – he is not the one making them. Besides, Bertha thinks, it is doubtful that he will even notice them.

“Always keep a man well-fed, it makes him happy,” her mother said with such frequency, Bertha swears she must have had some endorsement deal with an unknown company. These care instructions might work for a man in proper working order, but a broken man will never be happy, no matter what you feed him. Bertha is now combining the components of the meatballs and as she finishes massaging them into one homogenous mound of meat, she begins to laugh deeply. Thinking about the mindset of her mother made her fully see the strange likeness the sentiment implies between men and dogs. To keep them happy, simply feed them well and give them what they want. It has become accepted that these creatures must rely on someone else to care for them. Bertha begins to envy those who have a dog. At least dogs appreciate the care provided and give something in return.

Her internal alarm reminds Bertha that it is time to tend to her bread dough. Because of her impressive skill at shaping the loaf of bread, Bertha does not even allow herself time to think before she is done and moving on to her next session.

Rolling the meatballs is a dangerous task. It is like dream analysis. It is one part of the process in which the individual must marinate in the realities until it is over – there is no way around it. One must be delicate when rolling meatballs; allowing any rage to transfer to the physical realm prolongs the process. Bertha works as quickly as she can, but her memories slow her down. Bertha’s mind takes her back to a time so foreign to her that she questions if it ever happened. She and her husband married in a world in which she did not live in fear, a world in which happiness was possible – before something snapped. The depths of another’s mind is the only place that is unreachable to outsiders. Nothing can change that. This makes the fight for understanding pointless. Bertha knows this well, yet her knowing does not stop her mind from hopelessly grasping for answers every once in a while. The mind is a wild thing – it cannot be tamed. Was the kindness in his eyes always a façade? Were the good years they had intended to be the first step of a sadistic plan spanning decades? Was the alcohol the cause of his transformation? Or does he simply use it as a cover-up, providing him with some sort of excuse for his unforgivable actions? Is this monster he has become who he always was? Is this what is supposed to happen? Why? Bertha reels off questions in her head that she knows she cannot answer until she runs out of meat to roll. In despair, she throws her questions, along with the meatballs, into the pot of simmering sauce.

The perfectly shaped dough is finally ready for its new beginning and, jealous, Bertha helps it into the hot oven in hopes of bringing enlightenment and toughening its exterior. The only component left to tackle is the pasta. Bertha is a woman of integrity and she does not cut corners. She makes her pasta dough fresh, using eggs that she collected from the chickens that she lovingly cares for. There is no doubt the love could be tasted – until she starts kneading. She thinks of the man she will be sharing this meal with, not of the man she married. She wonders if it is worth it, but she knows what her cooking does for her, and she quickly brushes the thought aside. When the hate is strong enough, it oozes from her pores, replacing any love that once could be detected in the handmade pasta. Bertha muses that if her rage could be harnessed into some cables, she would be able to power a city. Kneading the dough is completed using only a trace amount of what she has kept bottled up. Bertha rolls out her pasta dough and slices it, by hand, into long strips, thin enough that they should receive admiration from anyone who sets eyes on them. Bertha will have to do all the admiring herself though, as the only other person who will have the chance lost the ability to see beauty long ago. Once the pasta is boiled, it is gleaming – absolute perfection. Bertha will no longer settle for anything less. She slices the bread, fresh out of the oven, and slathers each piece in creamy garlic butter. All that is left is a light toasting of the bread and this step of her healing is complete.

Still alone, Bertha sets the table, removes the garlic bread from its warm hideaway in the oven, and samples the sauce; she can taste her feelings. Glancing at the time, Bertha removes her beloved apron and finds that the sauce has left its bright red stain on the pure white expanse. Is the stain from the hearty marinara or from something else? Bertha’s kitchen therapy session was successful. She has decided. Bertha plates a portion of her efforts for herself and one for her husband. She adds the final touches and places the dishes on the table. Some say taking action is dangerous, but Bertha knows it is nowhere near as dangerous as complaisance.

Bertha unlocks the old wooden door and, at exactly the usual time, her husband walks through it. Without speaking, they sit down to eat. There is no point in forcing unnatural conversation and they do not bother trying to. Upon tasting the food Bertha has spent all day crafting, her husband says, “It tastes off – like something is missing.”

He can finally taste the anger and Bertha, smiling, is pleased.