I love Being With Mommy, But...
A steady, rhythmic beat resonated as the knife met the cutting board, chopping fresh ingredients.
The rhythm was consistent, and the sounds were similar. If it weren't for the different textures and diameters of the sliced ingredients, it would have been almost impossible to distinguish each chop from the next.
There was something mesmerizing about the fluid grace of a practiced hand wielding a kitchen knife, turning whole pieces of a plant into a multitude of julienned strips.
Each piece was the same thickness, the same length, and the same width, regardless of the fact that they each came from a different plant, even if the ingredients seemed at first glance to be similar.
A sizzling sound rang in the background, mixing with the repetitive and relaxing sound of chopping until one or the other vanished.