Oh Glorious Kitchen

People often say the kitchen is the heart of the home.  I’d have to agree.  My present kitchen is roomy, as kitchens go, with windows facing north, east and west and a skylight facing east.  Even on a gloomy day, there’s plenty of light shining through.  I’ve grown accustomed to my view after living in the country for 24 years, but that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate looking across our snow covered fields from any window and seeing flocks of snowbirds settling and then lifting up in a mad swirl just to land again a minute later in a different spot, who knows what their itinerary could be.  And then, there’s always a chance that a few deer will cross our back field;  we saw some wild turkeys yesterday back towards our bush,  completely oblivious to the recent turkey feasting going on around them, I’d bet.  Our well stocked bird feeders are a constant source of delight for us.  Cardinals, bluejays, chickadees, mourning doves are ever present.  The feeding frenzy is spectacular during a heavy snowfall.  I guess they know when to feast to add heat to their little bird bodies. Our two housecats, Molly and Missy can perch perfectly on the windowsill overlooking the feeders.  I can just imagine their non-hospitable thoughts for their little feathered non-friends.

The windowsill over the kitchen sink is quite narrow, but still I manage to clutter it up.  This is where I keep a few of my favourite things. The little man with the pot belly has been there since we moved in.  He says, “I love you this much”, with widespread arms and a goofy smile on his face.  I gave this to Brian over 30 years ago.  It’s not going anywhere anytime soon.  It’s rare that I don’t have a tiny vase with a fresh flower in it next to the little figurine, and a sweet scented candle in a miniature glass jar that my  friend Hilda gave me years ago.  When I visit other people’s homes, I always check out the items that they keep on their windowsills over the kitchen sink.  I think it says a lot about the person who lives there.

The old maple kitchen table and four solid chairs take up one corner of the kitchen.  The table dates back to when my kids were small, and though it has sprung a crack through the middle of the tabletop where two pieces of wood were joined, it is as strong and sturdy as the day it was built and continues to be the epicenter of our home.    I bathed all three babies in a little bathtub on that table, our parents sat and visited and drank tea with us, and visitors came and went over the years.  Just imagine the meals that were enjoyed here; Christmases and Birthdays, Thanksgivings and Easter dinners;  my family, Brian’s family and hundreds of bed and breakfast guests.  There must be a million conversations stored in that old wood. If tables could only talk.

Across from the table, on the other side of the patio doors is a waist high solid wood partition that hides a narrow, steep staircase to the summer kitchen, a full basement area under our kitchen.  This is Brian’s main entrance and exit – he’s either coming up from or going down to the basement to change into his barn clothes, a constant daily flow that I have grown accustomed to.   Farther along the same wall is where my highback chair sits, the one that Brian’s mom dragged in here so many years ago; a thrifty purchase from an auction visit one summer day.  The huge brown floral pattern went the way of the upholsterer’s knife to be replaced with a much subtler cream coloured fabric that suited me much better.  The chair backs onto a bright window that lets in perfect light for reading, and reading I do, a stack of books resting on the bookcase to my right, waiting their turn to be picked up, paged through and enjoyed to the very last page.  Right next to my chair looms the big, black locomotive of a woodstove, which on occasion can belch quite a lungful of smoke, but mostly it gives off the most incredible, soothing, warming, comforting glow of heat that a person could ever wish for on a cold winter’s day.    Kettles actually do sing.  I keep mine filled to the brim and it whistles a sweet song the whole day long while the dry wood in the firebox crackles and spits it’s fiery accompaniment.

Right across from my chair is the rectangular island, cupboard doors opening from both sides and filled with crazy amounts of bowls and platters and casserole dishes that would be well suited for a restaurant kitchen and I love every one of them.  There’s Brian’s grandmother’s beautiful brown pottery mixing bowl, his mother’s casserole dishes, my mom’s pie plates, colander, and many other cooking vessels that I’ve used and continue to use to this day.  The island has the largest countertop area in my kitchen, but this doesn’t stop me from loading it up with a house plant of some kind, our ever present coffee percolator, various bowls of fruit, onions and garlic -  a kitchen staple in my house, along with a half filled dish of candy, the other half having gone missing, I know not where. Still, I leave a space for cutting, chopping, paring, preparing all the food that is presented at my table.  I’m happy here in this place, layering flavours, creating tasty dishes to please myself and others.

I suppose that a love letter that is written about a room in a house could be construed as a bit odd, however, this detailed journal of my kitchen seems perfectly normal to me, an appreciative scan of all that surrounds me, each item holding warm memories of times gone by.  While it’s true that other places hold fond memories for me as well, my kitchen space and all it contains continues to occupy a place in my heart that nothing else can claim.  Oh glorious kitchen, this room be mine!