Where do all tired women go to? To bed. And what do they dream about? Kitchen-less homes.

What happens in the kitchen rooms of their houses? Women are cooked. Their hair dries under the exhaust fans of kitchens, falls into soups and gets eaten by their own people; while women worry about their lost hair, husbands at the table joke about whatever women brought to the table.

Their voices lose volume in the kitchens. They question their worth in the noise of electric mixers and running taps. Electric mixers run, so does their urge for recognition. Not knowing where it would spiral from, they turn around in the kitchen searching for equality.

Their hands, their nails lose colour, they look vampire-sucked, blood sucked. “Why do you look so pale?” they ask themselves, looking into the mirrors. “It’s the kitchen!” tell them, they would respond “no, no no, it’s love”

 Their minds are often marinated in thoughts of ‘Have I cooked well?’ ‘Do I win the brownie called respect? Women’s hearts become puppies moving in circles around the dining table for compliments. Women lose hours and their whole selves in the kitchen to nothing, to nothing on the plate, nothing in the bellies, no memories in anybody’s mind.

The kitchen is a maze! Save women from the maze of thoughts!