As I am standing here in my kitchen cutting meat for my famous beef jerky that is always a hit with family and friends, I am thinking about how many happy memories I have had in the kitchen. For me the kitchen is the heart of the home. It is where life lessons are taught and passed down, stories shared between generations, laughter and even tears. It is a place of healing and a place of love.
Growing up I spent so much time in the kitchen learning to cook and learning about life. I remember learning how to make the same beef jerky from one of my grandfathers while he was telling me stories of his life. I learned a lot about not only his life but also about the world he grew up in. I sat at the old wood kitchen table and would look at the spread of pictures he would lay out like jewels from his time serving in World War Two. I would be told of the experiences he was happy to share of a time that few remember except in History Books. I learned about the Great Depression and what he did to survive and try to help put food on the table. In that kitchen we would sing old songs and I would learn to write in cursive. I would look longingly out the window to the garden beyond as I wrote another sentence. I think I will always associate the smell of woo shire sauce and Maxwell house coffee with Pawpals kitchen.
While my other grandfather was a good cook, he usually left the real cooking to my grandmother. It was not until probably around seven years ago that I learned that Libba in fact did not like cooking. Which always amazed me because I pretty much grew up in her kitchen. My grandmother was a wonderful cook. She was very possessive of her kitchen. It was her battle ground. We all sat at that glass kitchen table so many mornings drinking coffee and watching for rabbits and chipmunks’ outback. The best chicken noodle soup came from her stovetop. Her kitchen was filled with love and laughter. I learned about real love watching her and my grandfather. When they would think none of us were paying attention, they would look at each other and that look would hold the promise of eternal devotion. I will forever associate her kitchen with brightness and the smell of roses that my grandfather would bring inside for her. It was always a place of peace and calm for me growing up.
So much of my life was spent in the kitchen that I fell in love with cooking. I am definitely not the best cook by any means. I put love into it though. Slowly but surely, I am introducing the kids to cooking. Right now, they love being in there and playing. I made myself a promise growing up that the heart of my home would always be my kitchen. It is a promise I am still holding true to. In the home I stay in with my mom, our kitchen is very large and open. When we were looking at different houses, I would immediately look for the kitchen and see if it was a place that felt it was the heart. Truly our kitchen here is probably one of my favorites. It is open and inviting and I love how much it flows. I have tried very hard to create special memories in this kitchen for my children.
What are your favorite memories in the kitchen?
