I realized recently that I am a big kitchen singer. I have playlists for every kind of meal, from brunch to afternoon snack to lazy weekend "linner," or lunch for dinner, for which my husband and I basically repurpose leftover bagels from breakfast into scrap sandwiches for dinner.

I suppose the kitchen is my version of some people's shower, the place where I feel very much at home and bold enough to belt out songs I certainly don't have the pipes for. Sadly, kitchen acoustics are not usually as forgiving or flattering as the loud pounding of running water that so conveniently deafens the singer just enough to encourage a wide range of would-be American Idols to take their own personal watery stage.

I find it very soothing to have music playing while I cook, and the tempo of what I'm listening to informs what I cook as often as what I cook determines what gets played. For baking, I love Bob Marley, Burning Spear, Dr. John and Sheryl Crow — and anything jazz. The quiet vibe is good for encouraging me to follow recipes (as I am wont to do), and the chemistry of baking is so crucial to the outcome. For major meals, I'm more of a techno lady. If there's a dance party in my kitchen, it's because I've got four courses coming up and David Guetta on the speakers. I mix it up for lunch; it could as easily be Johnny Cash and Frankie Valli as it could be Totally Enormous Extinct Dinosaurs and OMD or Adele and Nicki Minaj. And of course, I'm all about the Hotel Costes albums for dinner parties, as well as any Brazilian club mixes for peppy brunches.

Each playlist gets created in those moments at the computer when I've lost interest in writing or answering emails — or endlessly checking my Twitter feed — and I end up either scouring sites such as The Hype Machine, Pandora or Turntable.fm or simply perusing old stores of songs I've bought over the years. Going through old playlists — and even looking at the order of purchases — is like perusing a weird sort of digital musical diary. Listening to the favorite artists and songs that I've had since I started my online music library in the eighth grade is a funny sort of introspective adventure. That Limp Bizkit features prominently in my playlists from 2000 should tell you lots about my 14-year-old self.

In any case, earlier this week, I was happily singing along to one of my mixes — I think it was a Katy Perry number at this particular moment — and just as I was getting to the song's crescendo, I got a phone call. The voice on the other end was soft, almost apologetic: "Ma'am, I have a delivery for you. I've been outside your door knocking for about five minutes. Can you hear me?" With the music off, I heard the faint echo of our conversation happening from the other side of my apartment door.

Of course, my doorbell is broken. Of course, I'd been cleaning as I went, making even more noise than usual. And of course, I opened the door to reveal a tiny man, clearly mortified at having caught me in my moment of solitary catharsis, who timidly held forward my delivery. Yikes.

I was momentarily horrified, but as I shut the door behind him, I already was being drawn back into the kitchen, from which fragrant aromas from the tofu curry stir-fry on the stove were wafting. I walked back to my computer and turned the volume up. The next song was coming on, and I knew all the words.

To find out more about Daphne Oz and read features by other Creators Syndicate columnists and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.