I've decided I want to start remembering all the kitchens that have been a part of my life. Starting with the first one that had an impact on me.
2001-2002
We always would come into our house from the back, which led us straight into our kitchen. I would first pull forward an old splintering screen door, and then the heavier wooden one. The top half of this door is divided in little window panes that have adopted layers of dust and pollen. I step over the threshold. It's spring, so shoes often aren't a necessity - in or out of doors - and I can feel uneven raw heart of pine grains under leathered soles and toes. Rays of God-given light saturate the yellow walls that can only reinforce a sense of security and "home." Peering to the left, an old-fashioned white porcelain sink takes center stage. There is no dishwasher except for my small pair of hands. Spending several minutes under warm soapy water scraping and scrubbing till I have pruned wounds to show for my display of coerced obedience.
In the middle of the kitchen sat an island. It had an off-white body and unpolished wooden top strewn with scars and stains of knives or berries. Somewhere sat a bookshelf - maybe it was to the right, maybe it wasn't - chalk full of an impressive cookbook collection. It amazed me that one could create so many recipes to not just fill a book but an entire bookshelf (not to mention a whole section dedicated in most bookstores).
Now, I typically associate kitchens with my mother because she is, after all, a cookbook author. However, I can only remember two kitchens that were especially hers. And I consider this kitchen, the first. It was in this kitchen that her cookbook career began. It was this kitchen in which she first taught me how to cook. So, for not just for her, but for me, this insignificant room was where it all began.
Something that all of our kitchens have always had, are gas range stoves. The one in this house was older, and I think white. We had a stainless steel tea kettle that always found its home on the back left burner. The poor thing had endured many oil splatters and exposure to uncovered dishes popping and spitting hot substance all over the front of the kettle. But like a good dog, it remained loyal - always offering boiling water for a cup of afternoon tea.
What was the first thing I learned how to make? Chocolate chip cookies. I also learned that I loved to make a mess when I cooked/baked. Within minutes the whole kitchen would be under attack in an explosion of white flour - smearing over my clothes and skin and often times enough would fall onto the floor for me to leave behind powdery footprints.
Once the dough was left to the oven's sadistic conquest, the smell would rise. That smell we all know so distinctly. It fills your lungs with the most warm, sweet, and familiar air. And then the door would open, heat slamming against my unsuspecting eyes, causing them to water and squint. But the result sat in my oven-mitted hands. Often lop-sided and oozing with semi-sweet chocolate.
Wrapped in yellow, full of cookies, and decorated with flour - I was eleven-years-old.
