Pouring it down. Four floors above some tiny street of downtown Madrid. 1:50 p.m. A boat's cockpit, a few windowed square meters that the landlord stole from the terrace, that's the kitchen there (or what my roommates call a testing ground of the finest Italian cuisine, "listen to me, the best pumpkin ravioli recipe ever is yet to be conceived on this cook top by me." Outside a gypsy family is moving out; a hipster couple is moving in. The pillows of a couch are sopping on one side of the street. The van is blocking a mail truck. No hurries, it's raining, it's moving, some are gypsies, some are government workers, everyone brims with patience, everything is soaked in harmony. As I stab the artichoke's best piece, the bell rings; the new fridge has arrived. Artichokes must wait, it's time to whitewash this mess of empty balsamic vinegar bottles and mismatching tupperware lids. It's time to descale this den, to give this flat the girl's touch. Mum would feel proud. It's me versus this kitchen and only one can remain standing: cleanliness. Amen. 3, 2, 1, spray!
Sunshine punch. Attic floor of some state-subsidized building at the center of Madrid. 3:40 p.m. The more I scrub, the more dirt appears. Why on earth did I start to do this? The pasta dough is thawing, the arugula leaves are going off, my forearms are losing glycogen alarmingly. "The new fridge can't be plugged in until six hours have passed." Ok, four hours remaining. Enough time to see those mushrooms raising their kids... This stove... look at this! This is carbonized! I shouldn't be having these thoughts, I shouldn't forget what I dealt with when I was at... Cof, cof, cof! God, I don't want to live in a flat, I want to rent a soap bubble now and spend the rest of my life there. Mental note: Don't write about this. If there is someone reading you, he/she will stop, disgusted and probably think you're a squeamish being. I'm not. Mum wouldn't feel proud; mum would faint if she saw this. Ok, I can do it. I've fought worse burners than these. Take a deep breath. No, better don't. C'mon 3, 2, 1, scrape! Now!
Dusk. Flooded kitchen of some rat hole with miles of cement around. 7:45 p.m. Only an idiot could have decided to start this stupidity. It's just the floor. Wash the floor and everything will be done. Look at my artwork. Look at the cabinets, shinning accordingly to the new fridge. Look at the cook top... Pumpkin ravioli... Ebola vaccine can be conceived here now! Look at my fingertips, that’s how they'll look when I'm 96. Wow. I'm honoring the housewife's lineage to which I belong. What pride. What an evening my good lord. What a waste of energy. What a shine, what an emptiness... Poor mum, poor kitchen cleaners of this universe, I'm speaking to you all: stop the scrub, send it to hell, let the soot run, let the grease get pasted, let time fly you to the moon and not to the drain! Well, I'll make my roommates happy at least, I guess. "Ma, Carmen, cos'hai fatto? Where are the forks? Where is the salt?! Santa Madonna... questa ragazza è pazzo!"
