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March 2023 · Christian Ives Solis
RECORD VIII — March 2023: the turquoise pot
On the day of the lunch, Estela was not home. The night before, I had gone to bed in operator mode. Saturday off. Meal prep. Cooking for the week. Containers lined up in the freezer, the future stacked in order to negotiate the workdays ahead.
I slept later than planned. Voices woke me, along with the sound of dishes being moved, glasses in transit. The table being set without asking. I opened my eyes with my stomach already tight. I stepped into the living room in my underwear. The scene was half-built: wine bottles, perfect hosts, light conversation. No one had told me. I went back to my room, dressed quickly, and headed to the kitchen to get my large turquoise pot so I could start cooking. It was not on its shelf.
I saw the open door to the adjacent room, that hybrid guest room. I went in. There was my pot, on someone else’s bed. Inside it, an unopened bag of pasta and a wooden spoon resting on the rim.
It was territorial administration.
I took the pot, went back to the kitchen, and started cooking. Fifteen minutes later I had my space set up, with my pans and that pot occupying the burners like a silent declaration.
Aracely came in, saw the setup, and told me they were going to need it in a little while because guests were there. I answered that no one had let me know, that Saturdays were my production day, and that my time was planned. Her reply came without volume:
—But they’re already here.
The subtext: your routine does not compete with our event.
Then Claudio came in to press the issue. He arrived with the argument already prepared: that I had no “right” to use it if he also wanted it for his guests, ignoring the fact that the object belonged to me. The word was not about the pot. It was about command. It was about who got to decide the rhythms of the house when there was an audience in the living room. I shouted. I stopped myself from hitting him. When he turned away, I chose the nearest border: the slammed door. I felt the air move as I shut it hard. The domestic guillotine fell: kitchen inside, living room outside.
On the other side, the audience measuring who had broken the normal order. I finished cooking while measuring every movement, and I cleaned the steel without looking at anyone. I lit a cigarette on the terrace. I walked out, crossed the living room without stopping, teeth clenched and gaze fixed straight ahead. It was defense.
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