When I was a child, we lived in a tiny, brick bungalow. My mother, father and I barely fit around the table each night for dinner without bumping into the walls. There was no dining room so all of our eating was done in this small room. My mother lit the old gas stove with a match and stood back while the pilot ignited. On the wall, she had a painting of an elderly man praying over his food. Our only telephone hung on the wall. It was a dial phone with a twelve foot cord which reached into any room in the house.
My mother always wore an apron when she worked in the kitchen to protect her clothes from soiling. After dinner each night, she folded her apron and put it away for the next day. When I became a wife and mother, I bought an apron to cover my clothes. I have since bought one for each of my children. There is something about putting on an apron that says, "This is important work." I fondly remember her in her ladybug apron, breading porkchops at the counter. She let me help dip the porkchop into the egg and then into the breadcrumbs. We spent a lot of time in that kitchen together. I sat most evenings after the dishes were done and shared a cup of tea with my mother. We rejoiced in that kitchen when the Iranian hostages were freed. We cried around that table when the space shuttle Challenger exploded. There we sat, stunned, after Pope John Paul II was shot. No one said, 'Let's go sit in the kitchen." It simply happened. It was the place to sit and discuss important events.
Many years later, as a teenager, I lived with my Grandma. Sitting at her round, wrought iron table, I remember how she wrung her soft, wrinkled hands as we talked. Her kitchen was the Switzerland of our home. Grandma could soften any hurt feelings with a bowl of rice pudding or a piece of banana bread sprinkled with powdered sugar. We washed dishes together, sharing both work and words. In Grandma's kitchen, I learned that my Grandpa had died, that my parents were divorcing, that I was the first person in my family who had been accepted into college.
In my own home, the children seem to congregate in our small kitchen, not only to look for food but to spend time with mom. Conversation flourishes in this room. Guards come down, true feelings are revealed over a cup of tea or while holding a soapy cloth. Naturally, this room does not hold very many people but no one minds bumping shoulders with one another. Everyone feels at home here. Maybe it is the smell of comforting food. Maybe it is a sink full of warm, soapy water. Perhaps it is the small candle burning on the counter, a reminder of the Light of the World.
I have fond memories of many of my family members who have passed away. Many of those memories are linked to a special dish or meal they used to make. I have decided share those recipes and memories in my new blog entitiled The Heart of the Kitchen. Please stop by, pull up a chair and visit a while.
