OH, THE KITCHEN! You probably don’t need me to tell you kitchens are cozy, but it bears repeating. Kitchens are the central nervous system of a house. They are strong, vibrant rooms of creativity—usually warm, colorful, and fragrant. There are some minimal and sterile, and some overcrowded with oils dating back to the seventies with grubby stoves—but usually all of the senses are in fifth gear in a kitchen. One finds oneself in the kitchen to seek comfort, to be fed, to have a conversation, maybe to warm up—some lucky ducks have a fireplace in theirs (not in mine, but what a great dream that is)—and there’s usually a chair for a rest. I’m in the kitchen at least fifteen times a day, mostly to cook. I stuck a banana bread in the oven before I sat down to write this chapter. Kitchens are hubs. And all of the themes of cozy are alive in any one I have ever been in. Ovens, gas flames, boiling, steaming—heat is central to a functioning kitchen.
The clunky, push-button telephone I spent every waking hour on growing up in our Upper West Side apartment was mounted on the wall above the kitchen counter, its long, curlicue cord hanging down all the way to the floor. As a teenager, I sat by the phone on a high stool that was painted a French blue, waiting for it to ring. Most of the time my mother would be cooking. I would chat with her and watch her chop onions, brown stew meat in a gigantic orange Le Creuset, or peel vegetables. Inevitably, she would say something like “Would you just look at this,” holding up an asparagus stalk. “Look how funny he is, standing up so straight.” (She always personifies food things.) And then she would either snap off a bite or toss it in the pan. “You can’t cook them for more than a minute,” she would say, peering into the steam, “or they turn dull brown and horrible, but if you catch them at the right time . . .” And suddenly Mum would grab on to the handle, pivot, and dump the boiling water into a colander in the sink, dodging billowing steam. “They are the most MARVELOUS of vegetables—some people don’t like asparagus, but I do.”
Kitchens are intensely personal spaces. Cooking in someone’s kitchen (especially without asking) would be like playing someone else’s guitar: you can do it, of course, but be ready to feel the choices, particularities, and, I’ll just say it, soul of another while you do. The linoleum floors in some kitchens hold as much meaning as family albums. Generations have trod on them, swept them up, and stood waiting for water to boil. My mother used to lie on the floor of the kitchen when things had gotten too hectic and she needed a reset. There are little nicks and scratches in kitchen counters that have as much meaning as a wedding ring.
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WHEN YOU COOK in a kitchen, you invite the outside world and elements to work with you: the sink draws in water, small fire peeks out of the burner, the butcher you got the meat from is with you as you open the brown paper package it came in, the fishmonger’s words about the snapper swirl as you broil, the time of day plays a part, seasons, the sea, the language of a recipe, the people in your home, and your own quiet thoughts that are allowed to surface while you wait for a cake to bake. Kitchens are as full of stories as anthologies—if spatulas could talk. Some of our family’s stories are tacked up on the wall of our kitchen. Here are the posts and messages to myself that are on my corkboard: “Truth, it’s more important than ever.” The lyrics to the Thanksgiving hymn “We Gather Together,” the peace prayer of St. Francis, a BE STRONG decal, a button that says, I AM A NEWMANTARIAN, a postcard of a donkey, a picture of my oldest son with my brother’s greyhound, Oz, and an all-important note to the kids on how to clean up: 1) TURN OFF ALL APPLIANCES 2) PUT FOOD AWAY 3) CLEAN DIRTY DISHES 4) WIPE DOWN COUNTERS 5) DOES THE KITCHEN LOOK TIDY?
I can’t get enough of corkboards. They allow you to keep things you feel attached to but have nowhere to put—lots of people would say to toss the theater ticket stub you find in your pocket; I say keep it, but stick it on a corkboard. If a kid leaves me a note (rare because of those phones—but it happens), I’ll put it on the kitchen corkboard, and later, maybe months later when I look up from chopping, I see their handwriting, and then I think of them, and who they are, and how they have grown from when the note was written. If they are far away, I feel close—and then go back to chopping. The note could remain on the board in my kitchen for a decade.
Even the noises of the kitchen are worth listening for. My mother’s timer that’s melted on one side ticks so loudly the dogs’ ears perk up when I set it. The radio tells us the sports scores and weather reports, music of all genres blasts, microwaves beep, the oven hums, dish soap farts at the end of the bottle, the fridge door sucks as it closes, toasters ding, dry macaroni scrapes as it slides out of the cardboard box, coffee grinders make the loudest sound I have ever heard. That sound used to remind me of my mother; now it reminds me of my husband.