I went into the kitchen, foraging for food.

There were sounds in the kitchen that drew me.

Silent is the sound of my drooling saliva dripping on the floor.

The refrigerator has its own sound. It broadcasts its presence. “I’m here. I have food. Open me, and make a selection. Check all my shelves and bins and the slots in my door. Don’t forget my sibling the freezer. He has ice cream, and frozen treasures, and left overs.”

The dishwasher makes a noise when it’s running. It was making its noise so I knew it was running. Someone had prematurely turned the door magnet to “clean,” but I could hear that the dishes weren’t ready yet, so I looked in the cupboard and grabbed a clean bowl. Then a spoon from the drawer. Then the bag of granola from which I poured a modest amount into my waiting and no longer empty bowl.

I got the milk from the fridge, and assessed the shelves again. “Hmm…” Cheese, lunch meat, the makings of an incipient sandwich. Maybe later. I won’t go hungry.

I closed the fridge, and looked longingly at the microwave. It has its own sound, when the rotating platform turntable turns and rotates. If I had something to heat up, I would. It has lots of buttons to push, and beeps four times when it’s finished.

I looked at the clock on the oven which tells the time. It also tells the temperature and time remaining. The oven and stove are the cooking heart of food and make their own noises. Like the roasting crackle of turkey when the skin is crisp. Or the spatter of bacon frying.

“Mmm…Bacon!”

And the sink, the sound of falling water to wash even my hands.

I took my bowl of granola into the dining room and sat at the computer, calling to the kitchen, “I’ll be back!”