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My Mother’s Kitchen, Part 1

24 December 2008

I am home for the holidays. I eat better when I’m home. Partly because my mother cooks each evening, the kind of cooking that you can only do after thirty years of experimentation. Always elegant, no matter how simple, and always delicious.

But I also snack more, and cook more. Why is that? We keep the same food in our kitchens, though she often can afford to have more of it. I could say it is because I have less school work to do, but that’s not always true; I’ve been home when I have more work to do than any time. Eating just seems more effort at home.

At home, I realize, everything has a place. Not just in the kitchen, but in the entire apartment. The apartment was bought after my brother and I moved out so there’s not really a place for us, even. Dad’s office has a trundle bed set for us, but there is no other indication that my parents have children. Not because they don’t love us or anything, but just because we have our own spaces now that are elsewhere. My mother is not one for unnecessary things or unnecessary space.

In Mom’s kitchen, I know where everything is. I don’t have to think about anything, not where to find each knife, not if we have apples, not if I have a container to fit the leftovers. I know everything.

My kitchen doesn’t have that yet. It’s too new, and I have not had the time to organize it as well as I should. There’s room enough for everything, but so many things don’t yet have a place. I should fix that.

Mom’s kitchen is also always spotless. Besides that she cleans obsessively, she also has pretty much zero nooks or crannies and no poorly sealed outside door. That can’t be helped, but I should reseal the door.


One Comment leave one →
  1. 3 February 2009 3:47 PM

    Kitchens are important to me. Growing up on a boat, the galley was my mother’s domain, and I was not welcomed into it. Flash forward to fifteen years later, shortly after I started working full time+ as a lawyer, and I broke down crying because Bh had moved things around, I could not find a spatula, and it epitomized how alienated I felt from my own home.

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