THE JOY OF COOKING

I don't hear anything outside of the sizzle of my frying pan.  There's the butter and some onions browning nicely.  I hear the onions popping in the melted butter, I don't hear anything else from outside of my apartment window.  That's not a woman screaming, pleading for her life.  That's a small handful of thinly sliced onion caramelizing in two tablespoons of unsalted, organic butter.  I think I hear another woman's voice outside my window, but that's not it.  That's the sound of a very sharp knife slicing through the thin skin of a green pepper.  Slicing very quickly, actually,  Faster and faster.  One might call it the sound of chopping a vegetable, not the sound of desperate bargaining and tears outside of the wall that surrounds my home.  And now the peppers and the onions sizzle together, and I beat three eggs in a bowl with a fork, whisking and whisking and most definitely not hearing the other voice and insults and a single, hateful curse.  I'm listening to my vegetables cook in their mixed juices and browned butter and I'm listening very closely  to my sautee, and then I hear a gunshot.