Taking a page from a Pilates instructor I once had, I closed my eyes, shifted my weight, hanging percariously by my meager, weak, abs, legs partially aloft, and, as she says, deep, dreamy voilet tinged voice echoing through the cavernous room at the Y where I took: imagine. serenity. peace. details. those are the things that sustain you.

The carpet digging into my back fell away, and for once, I’m transported someplace friendly, warm, inviting; The Inside of A Cookbook. The words, accompanying photos looming large; myself small, unobtrusive, absorbed wholly in the careful listing of ingredients, their precise measurements comforting, whole, ordered. How life is so like the recipies: the sharp tang of lemon zest against the smooth, silky background of a buttery pound cake, hinting of vanilla, topped with thick, clotted cream. Friendship blossoms between orange rind and rum, coating dry cakes, infusing the dull ordinary with drama, flavor, a bit of piratic exoticism.

I swear, if I could spend a day even in the bowels of a cookbook, immersed in both the instruction and the doing of soaking beans for chili, how to properly season, marinate and prepare tofu, I’d gladly don the apron and hot, grab up a whisk, bowl, spoon, leaping in without looking either at the author, or what exactly I prepared. There is order among choas in cookbooks, stocked with knowledge the privelaged few extrapolate from between pages gummed with greasy fingerprints, jotted notes, the ever present spilled egg white.

If only my hours, days, years - my entire life - was as well organized, thoughtfully laid out, carefully seasoned and tended as a cookbook. I’d be able to enjoy the salty rim of the margarita, abated by the eversweet triple sec snuggled inbetween layers of lime, ice, tequila, and froth. All sourness would find it’s matching sweet counterpart, arrayed with precise measurements, keeping life from being either too sweet, too bland, too ordinary, too weird, too artificial.

Measuring my success in terms of fluted, high, gorgeous souffle’s, the descendant, lingering drop of the egg yolk in to the bowl, sans sticky white, eggshell-less, perfect in circular symetry, a pie crust, flakey, hot, fresh from the oven, emitting apple aroma’s into neighboring kitchens. Good parenting equated with firm, full-flavored cupcakes, swirled with frosting brimming with butter, vanilla, sugar; well balanced meals harmonious with mini-palates, but pleasing in color, texture, completely satisfactory on their own. Being a doting wife presented on a plate with mutten of lamb, fresh mint jelly, crispy roasted potatoes, plump, green asparagus.

Some people fade into the sunset, or an island retreat; their grandmother’s living room, sparsely furnished, but rich in lived life…me? I climb into Betty Crocker, turn the page, take out four pounds of butter, and settle into a life where questions have answers, where the only things that burn are the ones left unattended.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, my abs are burning, and the butter is ready for creaming.

Today, may be a good day afterall.