La Cuisine

The kitchen. The heart of the home. That certainly was true about 212 -- at least for the women folk. It was there that confidences were shared, tears were dried, fears were quited, hugs were exchanged, advice was freely given, spats were begun -- and resolved, announcements of newly expected family members (by birth or marriage) were celebrated, and laughter filled the air alongside delectable aromas. And, somehow, in the midst of all this, some damn good food was prepared.

It wasn't a fancy kitchen by any means. The mismatched furniture was scarred and dented with memories of the generations who had gathered round the two tables to fill their empty bellies and -- possibly an empty spot in their hearts. The walls echoed the stories, laughter, and prayers they had been privilaged to witness over the years. The small walk-through pantry that connected the kitchen and the dining room was the perfect spot for us cousins to hide and listen to the aunts gossip. We thought we were so smart! About the time our giggles gave us away, the smell of fresh rolls or cornbread would overcome us and we would organize grab-and-run attacks on the bread. We always ended up with a special plateful of warm rolls or cornbread with butter oozing down the sides. I don't know why we didn't just ask. No, it wasn't fancy, but it was beautiful.

My grandmother had two stoves -- a gas range that in her later years we feared her using because of her habit of catching her pot holders on fire, and a wood burning stove whose oven turned out the best pot roasts, sweet potatoes, and peach cobblers anywhere. Lazing behind the wood stove was a favorite activity of the house's cats (whose job it was to catch the mice supposedly scampering around the kitchen). On cold winter days kindling was brought in from under the back porch along with a full bucket of coal to feed the fire.

Even though my grandmother was queen of her kitchen, it was not unusual to see my grandfather frying meat in a skillet on top of the wood stove. He, being a butcher, didn't trust anyone else to safely prepare the meat. That was his only job in the kitchen -- except to eat. My grandmother cooked three full meals a day, and served them on the table topped with a red and white checked table cloth. In the middle of the table (that sat at least ten), you could depend on finding jars of home-made pickled peaches, peppers, and beets along with bottles of farm-fresh honey with the comb, and Golden Eagle (soppin') Syrup for the biscuits -- hot out of the oven or cold sitting on a plate in the cabinet.

My spot in the kitchen varied. If only my family was there to eat I was allowed a place at the big table. If it was Sunday or a holiday I found myself at the children's table on the side of the room by the window overlooking my godmother's house. My chair was always the same though. It was not as high as a regular chair and it had a rounded back. It fit me just right. I sat in that chair until I married and brought children of my own to 212. By that time both tables in the kitchen were dedicated children's tables, and two adult tables were needed in the dining room. I worked my way up to one of the tables in the dining room, but never to the main table.

I guess this would be a nautural point to describe my kitchen duties, but....as it turned out, I had none. I can only assume that, over the years, my grandmother and her daughters had choreographed their kitchen routine so finely that an additional dancer would have been superfluous. From time to time, as I sat in front of the tv waiting to be called to the table, my grandfather would pass by and suggest that I check in the kitchen to see if I could help. So, I'd trudge to the kitchen and ask how I could help. It never failed that I'd be handed a potato masher. So it was that I became a master of mashing potatoes. My grandfather always found some excuse to walk through and as he passed me by, he would pat my shoulder -- as I was mashin' away. And....at some point during dinner he would catch my eye, lift his fork, and with a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his face, toast me with a fork full of fluffy, snow-white mashed potatoes.

Of all the many memories I have of the kitchen at 212, one stands above all the others -- especially at this time of year. It involved my mom, me, and Christmas. My mom was always on the go, always volunteering, working on one committee or another. My mom was always busy, then she was sick, then she was gone. We never seemed to find the time to have the relationship I never knew I needed, but realize now I miss. Maybe that's why this memory is so dear to me.

It was a drab, chilly day close to Christmas. There must have been a chill in the air inside the house on Avenue Z because I remember wearing a scratchy sweater along with thick, warm, comfy socks. There was a fire burning in the wood stove and the smell of my grandmother's tea cakes browning in the oven filled the air. Even though it was cold outside and chilly in the rest of the house, the kitchen was toasty warm. My mother had decided my hair needed washing and that the kitchen sink was where it was to be done. So there we were, the two of us -- me with my head lowered over the kitchen sink and my mother gently massaging lavender scented shampoo into my hair as we sang "Silent Night".

This Thanksgiving, I hope you all create one memory that will bring a smile to your face each time you think about it in the years to come.