Intimate glances, long fingers and legs. Saying things, yet finishing sentences inside your head. One mirror in the house, given a cursory glance from time to time...Just a quick combing of a hand through your hair, a sniff at socks before they go on your feet. A plaid shirt and jeans are your armor, as you set out by bike or by car.
Books are a sanctuary, your kitchen an escape as concoctions emerge from pots and pans. Careful to always brush your teeth before bed....yet careless when it comes to planning beyond tomorrow. Your laundry basket overflows, as does your creative mind and generosity to a fault.
A contradiction: your caged heart keeping you safe...but eyes bright, peeling back layers for a glimpse inside. You are: German poetry translations, student of the stars, cowboy ancestor, bath-time reader, unruly childhood, meditating, epic bike rides, laughing Yogi, blue-eyed bandit.
22 September 2008
01 September 2008
Clean Plate Club
Growing up, the kitchen was always the center of the universe in our house. It wasn't a huge space, or even a modern one. Nonetheless, our lives unfolded on many occasions, in every season of the year...and of our lives as a family, in this humble room.
Just about every morning during the school year, I could be found eating my breakfast on the floor of our cozy kitchen. Especially in the winter, my back against the warmth of the old-fashioned radiator hidden behind a screen. I would happily eat my Cream of Wheat or waffles, usually still in my pajamas. My first thought on a cold and dark winter morning, was getting downstairs to the warmth of the kitchen.
NPR was always on, the familiar voices reporting as my mother made coffee at breakfast or tuna fish sandwiches for lunch. My next favorite perch was on the counter, next to where we piled the days mail. Mom and I would chat, often joined by Dad when he returned home from work...tantalized by the smells of dinner bubbling merrily on the stove.
As I grew older, the beverages evolved from root beer floats to a Friday Night Special...my father's version of a Manhattan, with cherry juice just for me. My mother's many dinner parties invariably started in the same kitchen that started days with toast, and ended nights with warm milk with honey. Our friends would gather and chat, wineglasses in hand, nibbling on hot crab dip or veggie pizza with ranch dressing. If the parties were during colder weather, there would always be mulled wine warming on the stove, its comforting scent luring guests back to the kitchen again.
On Christmas morning as children, my brother and I were ushered down the back stairs into the kitchen...so that we wouldn't see the Christmas tree, seductive with brightly-colored packages peeking out. We would have my mother's special sweet waffles, fragrant with orange rind and real butter. Christmas morning would also bring hot chocolate with extra marshmallows and bacon sizzling in Mom's trusty cast iron pan. We would haunt the linoleum floors in footie pj's until the waffles emerged piping hot from the waffle iron.
I learned everything I know about cooking from my mother...and her mother and great aunt before her. But all cooking knowledge was absorbed in that kitchen, with its warm wooden cabinets and cool tile counters. When I was still pint-sized my mother pulled out the step stool, so I could help her cut out buttermilk biscuits or make sour cream sugar cookies from Great Aunt Margie's legendary recipe. One of my favorite memories was standing elbow-to-elbow with my mother, flour everywhere as we made those wonderful cookies...John Denver or Alabama singing Christmas songs in the background.
As a college student, my brother dreamed of apple crisp...eagerly waiting for the reality when he was home for a visit. He leaned against the kitchen counter, until my mother pulled the bubbling concoction from the oven...piping hot in its familiar yellow baking dish. As students, as adults, the first place we gravitate towards is our beloved kitchen..catching up, all four of us soaking up the rarity of our time together with the familiar backdrop of the stove, the oven, the humming refrigerator, the delicious smells.
The kitchen will always be the center of the household for me, because it has been a cocoon of safety and love my whole life. Whether I was learning to cook, learning to dance with my mother, or learning life lessons, the kitchen and what it stood for was a focal point of my often chaotic existence. I will continue to be drawn towards the kitchens in my life, putting special importance into food and nurturing that I associate with that space. Whenever life gets complicated or painful, I can always find solace in my kitchen and in the memories and love I've found in the kitchen of my childhood.
Just about every morning during the school year, I could be found eating my breakfast on the floor of our cozy kitchen. Especially in the winter, my back against the warmth of the old-fashioned radiator hidden behind a screen. I would happily eat my Cream of Wheat or waffles, usually still in my pajamas. My first thought on a cold and dark winter morning, was getting downstairs to the warmth of the kitchen.
NPR was always on, the familiar voices reporting as my mother made coffee at breakfast or tuna fish sandwiches for lunch. My next favorite perch was on the counter, next to where we piled the days mail. Mom and I would chat, often joined by Dad when he returned home from work...tantalized by the smells of dinner bubbling merrily on the stove.
As I grew older, the beverages evolved from root beer floats to a Friday Night Special...my father's version of a Manhattan, with cherry juice just for me. My mother's many dinner parties invariably started in the same kitchen that started days with toast, and ended nights with warm milk with honey. Our friends would gather and chat, wineglasses in hand, nibbling on hot crab dip or veggie pizza with ranch dressing. If the parties were during colder weather, there would always be mulled wine warming on the stove, its comforting scent luring guests back to the kitchen again.
On Christmas morning as children, my brother and I were ushered down the back stairs into the kitchen...so that we wouldn't see the Christmas tree, seductive with brightly-colored packages peeking out. We would have my mother's special sweet waffles, fragrant with orange rind and real butter. Christmas morning would also bring hot chocolate with extra marshmallows and bacon sizzling in Mom's trusty cast iron pan. We would haunt the linoleum floors in footie pj's until the waffles emerged piping hot from the waffle iron.
I learned everything I know about cooking from my mother...and her mother and great aunt before her. But all cooking knowledge was absorbed in that kitchen, with its warm wooden cabinets and cool tile counters. When I was still pint-sized my mother pulled out the step stool, so I could help her cut out buttermilk biscuits or make sour cream sugar cookies from Great Aunt Margie's legendary recipe. One of my favorite memories was standing elbow-to-elbow with my mother, flour everywhere as we made those wonderful cookies...John Denver or Alabama singing Christmas songs in the background.
As a college student, my brother dreamed of apple crisp...eagerly waiting for the reality when he was home for a visit. He leaned against the kitchen counter, until my mother pulled the bubbling concoction from the oven...piping hot in its familiar yellow baking dish. As students, as adults, the first place we gravitate towards is our beloved kitchen..catching up, all four of us soaking up the rarity of our time together with the familiar backdrop of the stove, the oven, the humming refrigerator, the delicious smells.
The kitchen will always be the center of the household for me, because it has been a cocoon of safety and love my whole life. Whether I was learning to cook, learning to dance with my mother, or learning life lessons, the kitchen and what it stood for was a focal point of my often chaotic existence. I will continue to be drawn towards the kitchens in my life, putting special importance into food and nurturing that I associate with that space. Whenever life gets complicated or painful, I can always find solace in my kitchen and in the memories and love I've found in the kitchen of my childhood.
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