K for Kitchen

"And, indeed, is there not something holy about a great kitchen?...The scoured gleam of row upon row of metal vessels dangling from hooks or reposing on their shelves till needed with the air of so many chalices waiting for the celebration of the sacrament of food. And the range like an altar, yes, before which my mother bowed in perpetual homage, a fringe of sweat upon her upper lip and the fire glowing in her cheeks.”   Angela Carter

K is for my favorite room in the house.  The kitchen.  The word comes from the Latin “coquere” meaning “to cook” which in noun form becomes “coquina” and then finally, in modern English, to our beloved “kitchen.”

My earliest memories feature this bastion of nourishment, both physical and spiritual.  In the summer time, we’d be called into dinner, sometimes coming reluctantly because the kick ball game was just too much fun, other times, dashing in because our bellies were ready.  Fried chicken and spaghetti were common fare.  Or hamburgers and hotdogs.  Mac and cheese.  Mashed potatoes.  It seemed Mom was always getting ready to cook, cooking, serving or cleaning.  Oh, add canning to that – pickles and tomatoes mostly.  There was no shortage of activity in that kitchen.

Right down the sidewalk was my grandparents’ house – and another kitchen!  If there was nothing readily available for snacking at home, I could head there and look pitiful.  Mary Louise would conjure up something for me. She made the best cinnamon toast – it was the powdered sugar that made it so irresistible. 

At Thanksgiving, we would go to my aunt’s and uncle’s house – four or five of my mom’s siblings, their spouses and kids – a whole house full and then some.  It was a big old farmhouse and the kitchen was roomy enough for all those women.  And that’s where they spent most of the weekend, cooking, drinking coffee, talking, shooing the kids and the men out of their domain.

In my first home, my dad’s constant complaint was the size of the kitchen – too small.  Mom and Dad changed all that when we moved to the house on State Road 9.  The kitchen was gigantic.  It was about that same time that Mom went to work outside the home and Dad took over in the kitchen.  His experience in feeding people was in big quantities – my grandparents owned the Hope Café where he worked as a young man before going off to the Army where he was assigned to the kitchen because of this background.  His specialty dishes were made in a gigantic pot that could feed whoever showed up.  Chili.  Sauerkraut and dumplings.  Vegetable soup.  No one went home hungry from our house. 

When buying a house over the years, the kitchen was always the first consideration for Charlie and me.  The bigger the better.  Than we moved to Geneva and everything got proportionately smaller.  We learned when it comes to kitchens, size doesn’t matter.  We made lots of great memories in that efficient little Swiss kitchen.  Finding the right kitchen was a bit more difficult here in Singapore.  A lot of kitchens are very small and many have no air con.  But we’ve been blessed by a nice kitchen and, just like in the US, it’s the gathering spot whenever we entertain.

How we select our food, prepare our food, consume our food – these are sacred activities easily forgotten in our busy world.  But whenever I’m feeling homesick or low energy or just a little blue, I find an old recipe, or a new one, and start cooking.  And whenever I’m feeling especially happy and blessed, I find an old recipe, or a new one, and start cooking.  Well, full disclosure, I am the sous chef in our family.  Charlie is the chef. I typically plan the menu, do the marketing, and assist – his culinary skills far exceed mine.  But together or with friends, we have our times of fellowship and gratitude in the kitchen as we feed our bodies and souls.