THE HEART OF THE HOME

LAST night was a very regular night at my household. After coming home from a long day at work, I took to my beloved kitchen and spent a blissful half an hour sipping on a glorious cup of white tea and reflecting upon a smorgasbord of thoughts, much like a swirling array of distant traffic lights on the highway.

- Vernika Awal

As I spent this quiet moment, it suddenly struck me that with my entire home at disposal, I chose to stand in the kitchen.

The thought brought a smile to my face. You see, equals as we are in many aspects, the kitchen at my household is entirely mine. My husband, despite possessing the ability to cook quite a mean gravy, isn't a natural in the kitchen. It is my haven—a place where I sculpt my fries, paint my curries and sketch everything else in between.

This isn't even a new habit—I grew up in a household with both of my parents going to work. Since the age of 12, I naturally took to the kitchen as I always liked a good, square meal done to my exact preferences—my mother, who'd leave for work as early as 7 o'clock in the morning, encouraged this habit too. I've grown to treat my kitchens as my canvases, a den that's solely mine.