HOME | DD

Description
I drop the stiff golden strands of pasta into the boiling water, which is rupturing as bubbles burst forth and tendrils of pale steam curl around my fingers. The pasta bends and softens, relaxing into the pot.
I move away from the stove and turn to the old wooden cutting board with bright orange carrots resting beside it. I pick up the shining silver knife on the cutting board, and slowly slice my carrots into imperfect circles, some rolling and falling to the floor. I leave them and reach for the slightly wilted lettuce, from which I tear the best green leaves and rip into smaller pieces, tossing them into the white porcelain salad bowl which is still covered with sparkling drops of water from when I had washed it. I scoop up the carrots and carelessly throw them on top of the lettuce.
There is a perfectly black avocado in my hand, I stick my knife in it and slice it all around the hard pit. Inside it is pure green, and I cut it into imperfect cubes, dumping it also into the bowl.
I turn around and tug open the refrigerator, reaching for the bottle of dressing and the creamy white parmesan cheese. The aroma of the boiling pasta reaches my nose, and it smells almost like wet salty paper. I pour the dressing on my salad, little clumps and spots of white and blue dripping in globules from the mouth of the bottle. I shake the shredded cheese on top as well, and turn to the oven.
With a wave of heat and the scent of slightly burnt butter and garlic, I check the corners of the bread on the rack. It is all golden brown and rippling in the heat. With a snap, I turn the oven's heat to off and shut the door.
The pasta is lazily rumbling in the pot of foggy water. I can tell that it is done, and I grab the dented colander from the counter. Over the sink, I pour the flaxen pasta from the pot to the colander and watch the water drain out until there are only a few sparkling drops of water.
On the table are four empty glasses, waiting to be filled. One by one, I spill cold milk into each one, a column of white that fogs the outside of the glass. I turn, yell to my family that dinner is ready, and smile to myself.

Description
I drop the stiff golden strands of pasta into the boiling water, which is rupturing as bubbles burst forth and tendrils of pale steam curl around my fingers. The pasta bends and softens, relaxing into the pot.
I move away from the stove and turn to the old wooden cutting board with bright orange carrots resting beside it. I pick up the shining silver knife on the cutting board, and slowly slice my carrots into imperfect circles, some rolling and falling to the floor. I leave them and reach for the slightly wilted lettuce, from which I tear the best green leaves and rip into smaller pieces, tossing them into the white porcelain salad bowl which is still covered with sparkling drops of water from when I had washed it. I scoop up the carrots and carelessly throw them on top of the lettuce.
There is a perfectly black avocado in my hand, I stick my knife in it and slice it all around the hard pit. Inside it is pure green, and I cut it into imperfect cubes, dumping it also into the bowl.
I turn around and tug open the refrigerator, reaching for the bottle of dressing and the creamy white parmesan cheese. The aroma of the boiling pasta reaches my nose, and it smells almost like wet salty paper. I pour the dressing on my salad, little clumps and spots of white and blue dripping in globules from the mouth of the bottle. I shake the shredded cheese on top as well, and turn to the oven.
With a wave of heat and the scent of slightly burnt butter and garlic, I check the corners of the bread on the rack. It is all golden brown and rippling in the heat. With a snap, I turn the oven's heat to off and shut the door.
The pasta is lazily rumbling in the pot of foggy water. I can tell that it is done, and I grab the dented colander from the counter. Over the sink, I pour the flaxen pasta from the pot to the colander and watch the water drain out until there are only a few sparkling drops of water.
On the table are four empty glasses, waiting to be filled. One by one, I spill cold milk into each one, a column of white that fogs the outside of the glass. I turn, yell to my family that dinner is ready, and smile to myself.