Chef Bouche, Mrs. Potts, and the Pooper Scooper

A liminal flicker

Artistry by Michelle Beck.

Move-out day from the home I’d been renting was January 1, 2025. And I found it impossible to book a deep cleaner over the holidays. The soonest someone could help was on the sixth—a too-long turnover.

Two weeks out, I resolved to tackle the job myself, but not without resistance. I, hated, cleaning. It was tedious work, took forever, and left me exhausted.

This was often a point of contention in my marriage. I didn’t want to clean. He was often willing, but I struggled to ask. So I would just do it. Begrudgingly.

I wasn’t unaware of these feelings bubbling up again in my nervous system.

Maybe this was my chance to be with those emotions, to finally let them move through as they’re meant to. Rather than sweeping them under a rug where someone else will eventually encounter the mess.

I resolved to break the house in pieces, tackling one project a day. Windows, walls, cupboards, fridge. The tasks went on.

“Sorry buddy,” I heard myself say to the black handled, silver slitted poop scoop as it flung across the way.

On the checklist of deep cleaning activities, I was now in a small corner where the cat’s litter box lived, picking out pine dust of hard pellets that disintegrate when doused from baseboard cracks and crevices.

“I’m losing it,” I thought, “talking to a shit shovel.”

Then a memory.

Sixth grade play, Beauty and the Beast. I tried out for Bell because I loved the movie—not the limelight—and was sure I wouldn’t actually get the part.

I got the part. (Reflecting on that whole experience would be more a liminal floodlight than flicker. I digress.)

Following the imaginal trail led me to Chef Bouche, the fiery oven who was once a human head chef before a curse befell the castle.

Days earlier, I’d begun this deep cleaning journey with the oven. A sleek, stainless steel exterior, and a rich cobalt blue interior smattered with crispy bits of melted, bubbled-over cheese from frozen pizzas and pans of lasagna. Music in my ears, deep breathing in my lungs, presence in my pulse, I took my time setting up the overnight baking soda soak, clearing it out the next morning with gentle scraping, scrubbing, and shining motions.

I was bringing him back to life. And the process felt like ritual.

Mrs. Potts sat in view on a shelf. My version was similarly stout, but clear, so that when she brewed for me a warm cup on a late night it was as if we were chatting at the table together and I could see through to her insides, yellow bulbous chamomile flowers unfolding in her belly.

When it comes to belongings, I’m selective. Now I understand why. Even the immobile, immovable things possess the potential to move. Maybe not as they do in Beast’s Castle. But we certainly dance together. And I desire for it to be a beautiful one.

> A liminal flicker: Everything carries energy. Even solid objects consist of atoms in constant motion, creating sensible vibrations. It may be time to take stock of what surrounds us. Answering honestly the question: How do I feel in their company?