The kitchen is a mess, warmly lit by globe lights decorating the window behind the sink along with several tiny disco balls, a pennant garland, and a sprouted onion in a jam jar. Old salsa jars filled with water need to be washed and fizzy water cans need to be drained before recycling, but for now they are sitting next to the sink with Emory’s purple rubber gloves draped over the “dirty” bin. An assortment of cloths and sponges are by the sink, opposite dishes precariously piled up and spilling over the drying mat onto a dish towel laid to catch them.

Soup is in the slow cooker for A and N, who will be over for dinner this evening. Their sweet cat, Archie, our little nephew, passed away suddenly yesterday, and tonight’s task is giving them a distraction from his absence. The earthy sweet smell of chickpeas is getting stronger. The lamp (no overhead lights for us, thanks) illuminates the stovetop—the only “counter” space available—and the painting of lemons that hangs above it (one of Emory’s many paint-by-numbers masterpieces). Carrot peels in white, yellow, orange, and purple and the butts of celery stalks fill a chopping board on its glass top and ramps gathered by Z, our housemate, are in a plastic bag on the shelf that holds more salsa jars Emory is keeping for fertilizers, filled with banana peels steeping in water and crushed eggshells.

A package of mint creme sandwich cookies and a crust made from them sit on the other half of the stovetop while the oven preheats. Our friend V is moving to Australia to be with her partner, and we’re hosting her going-away party tomorrow. She’s requested a mint chocolate chip ice cream cake (Emory’s favorite flavor, so I know he’s thrilled about her choice) for the send-off. We’ll miss her, and we’ll learn the time difference and what video call app works the best and she’ll get to tell us about how life has changed for her since leaving.

Clementines, tomatoes, and cucumbers peek out of a cardboard box on the counter across from the stove. They’ll feed sleepy-eyed marchers early Saturday morning who will walk 25 miles out of love for the people of Palestine and hope that our time, attention, money, prayers, anything really, will mean something in the grand scheme of things and take us one step closer to the end of the genocide, the end of the most horrifying things most of us have ever witnessed. I long for the day that families in Gaza have only their kitchen messes to worry about, for the day running water to clean the dishes and food scraps from full meals prepared in four safe walls are abundant. I believe wholeheartedly that this is possible.

Marmalade is standing in the corner by the pantry where her food is kept, woefully misjudging the time and barking at me to give her dinner an hour early, and I’m grateful. Emory is at his computer in the dining room, working late, and I’m grateful. The dryer sings a long chipper song in the basement below, telling me that I have more clean laundry to fold and put away, and I’m grateful. I’m enraptured by the constant shuffle of sustenance, the way that things that nourish us rarely hold their shape. Produce becomes compost, friends become family, the dog’s bark and the dryer’s chime become the accompaniment to a full life. The kitchen is a mess, almost always, and I am grateful.