"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.
