What's to Love About a Kitchen

If you were asked, "What do you love most about your kitchen," you may say as others have, "My cookbooks are like diaries," "I learned my mother's recipes," "I love my grandmother's old cutting board." When I think of the kitchen where I spent my early childhood, it's the red counter top and the smells that I loved--the aroma of home-baked bread or Hubbard squash baking with brown sugar and butter oozing in the center, fresh-from-the-garden stewed tomatoes with lots of pepper as an after school snack, and the pungent odor of homemade soap used in the open tub wringer washer that was wheeled into the kitchen on wash day. Some of the farm kitchen's signature scent archived in my memory, came from the wood stove Mother used until sometime in the 50's.  The kitchen table, dark brown with defined wood grain, made by one of my brothers, had a center base section and extra leaves that folded out to make the table top bigger. That table saw a lot of meals served for family, relatives, and crews working the fields. It was Daddy's desk when he need one and Mother's space to spread out lots of genealogy papers.

There wasn't much to love about the kitchen in the 100-year-old, two-story house in Weston where Mother and I lived when we left the farm. We cooked in an old fashioned popcorn popper that first summer. 'One-eyed Eagles', Mother called our mainstay hot meal of each day--butter melted in the hot popper, a slice of bread with the center removed dropped into the hot pan to sizzle, a raw egg plopped into the open center of the bread, to complete the dish.

The kitchens at my elementary, junior and senior high schools were real working spaces with food made from scratch and served by cooks students knew like family. May Jensen made such good casseroles. Ruth Powell's pie and chili were favorites. Hot breads were served in each of the kitchens. I think everyone looked forward to 'school lunch'.

The apartment kitchens I remember when I left Weston in '62 were small but sufficient to heat, eat, and run, given busy schedules at school, work, and play.

As a new bride, I lived in the basement of a beautiful, old home on the avenues in Salt Lake City. The kitchen was a laundry room with a deep sink and a landlady who checked regularly to be sure I had washed my dishes and cleaned my oven. A fridge and stove had been set down in the room but there was no counter top. One small cupboard hung on the wall. The old woman insisted on having her cleaning lady clean and polish the tile floor to a brilliance brighter than a new car and would then send me the bill! I was offended.  Did she think I didn't know how to mop a floor? Looking back, that may be what I loved most about that kitchen. What a deal for a few bucks! It was in this make-shift kitchen that I first tried my wings hosting, an after-the-wedding party in early spring, a Christmas open house for about 50 people that same year, and a few of the South cousin couples monthly parties, preparing all the food and drink served in that funny kitchen.

Frank and I gave up that apartment in late spring-early summer, traveled in the states and in Europe, returning to his parent's home in South Salt Lake at the end of the summer of '67. His mother became ill so I was expected to run the kitchen. I had morning sickness almost 24/7 so I don't remember doing any cooking. I don't know how Jane managed the high cupboards in that room. Mostly, we kept groceries in the fridge and it was every man for himself for the weeks we were there.  Our move to Ogden, Utah that fall blessed me with a kitchen filled with sunlight streaming through bay windows surrounding the breakfast nook. I 'nested' in that cozy space, sewing blankets and sleepers and crocheting booties in anticipation of the birth of our son.

It was the spaciousness of the kitchen that I loved, in the second Ogden location we called 'home'. Never had I, before, nor have I since, had so much cupboard and drawer space. I loved the peace that kind of order--everything has a place, everything in its place,--brought to everyday life. Our daughter was born while we lived here. In this kitchen, I learned to make menswear and had a home sewing business. It was in this kitchen that the toddler discovered his hand-eye coordination and cut through the bottom of a bridesmaid dress in the making. Fortunately, the dress was hung high on the door, the 'tailor' was a short, little tot, and the woman, also on the short side, didn't need much of a hem!

What was there to love about the tiny kitchen in the two-room apartment in South Salt Lake? The washer, even though it was a real squeeze to fit it in. Somehow, we always had space enough and food enough to host weekly taco feeds with friends in that 'Squeeze Inn' kitchen. Living there made it possible to save a down-payment to purchase a home.

I learned to scrub my own kitchen tile floor so we could have eaten off it in our first home on Bonneview Drive in Salt Lake. My new neighbor, Pat, came knocking at my door at 2:00 a.m. finding me on hand and knees. She thought I must be up with sick kids. We did 'picnic' when Frank traveled until I hauled a small, rickety table from Grandpa South's back yard, the one he used to stand on to paint his house, hammered in a few strategically placed nails, gave it a good scrubbing and covered it with a homespun tablecloth.  The tiny fridge left behind by the previous owner was located in the basement. The stove was 30 years old. Limited counter space and storage was confined to one corner of the kitchen, two large windows at the opposite corner.   The blending of oils for Tole painting was made easier in the grand light streaming in from those kitchen windows.

A neighbor invited me to join her in gleaning fresh tomatoes from the Stake Church Farm project fields. When two women fill a big, old station wagon with very ripe tomatoes, the canning goes on for a long time. Then, the real work begins, cleaning the spatters off the ceiling.  One new neighbor was a bit too friendly.  She seemed to pop through my kitchen door just when I was stirring something up, and quick as a flash, she'd dip her finger in the mix for a taste! If the smell of baking bread escaped the kitchen and wafted out into the neighborhood, I could count on kids filling my front steps, hoping for a slice with melting butter and dripping honey. They also liked to be invited in to bake cookies, something they said they could not do at home because of the mess they'd create. 

"There will be X number of people for dinner and we'll be there in about 30-minutes."  Times like these provided a perfect opportunity to experiment, and to serve the result--cheese souffle, chicken parmesan, ... oh, there was that one chocolate silk pie with double the butter (my mistake), and the poor gentleman who ate it without saying a word, then popped Tums the rest of the evening but I did become somewhat of a cook in this kitchen. The kids learned very early to eat with grownups and to use stemware glasses like pros.  Todd asked one dinner guest if he knew he didn't have enough hair to cover his head, and wondered aloud with another guest why their eyes looked different.  Not happy about something, Jenn announced she was running away from home and going to Steve's house. With her bag packed, she stood just outside the door for some time before asking, "Could you walk me across the street? You know I'm not allowed to cross alone!"  A Thanksgiving dinner was served out of my bare kitchen. We had no furniture, just two hand-me-down beds and a baby's crib so with borrowed card tables arranged in our empty living room, both South's and Morgan's could be seated. College kids and little people filled the steps leading to the basement.

From my kitchen window in Sparks, Nevada, I can see Mt. Rose, despite all the development that has occurred in the past 35 years. I loved my first and am just as thrilled with my second red, Kitchenaide mixer but it is the kitchen table I love, simple and inexpensive, but with more than 30 years of family history.  Oh, that I had thought to keep a written log on the underside of this table of the traditions and events that have transpired here. We've gathered to create campaign slogans during Jenn's runs for school offices. Todd and Jenn brought their friends, their dates, their spouses, and their children to this table for meals, for treats, just to talk, for board game night, to make pinatas, candy cards, countless crafts, endless homework. Pine Wood Derby cars representing two generations got their start at my table. Homely, garden pumpkins became Halloween masterpieces and then pie. Sometimes I remembered the sugar. Sometimes not. Prom formals and corsages, before-the-dance candlelight dinners were created here. The table was designed to seat six but it has more often been stretched to exceed that number. It has been a staging area for costuming, make-up, hair cuts, bringing characters to life for book reports. This kitchen has become the final check point before leaving the house, for school and work, for dances, dates, graduations, marriages, the arrival of grandbabies, the homecoming of some. 

How many gingerbread houses have we built here? I made my first one for Todd's class when he started school in Salt Lake. That was the start of a great, family tradition. Many little hands have learned to cut cookies and master the making of the famous holiday crescent dinner rolls. We've sat at my table to pray. Giggles have bounced back and forth from person to person like a ping pong ball across this table; its surface has also been splashed with tears. It has held firm amidst raised voices, heavy hands, moving feet and flaring tempers through two generations. Serious thoughts have been shared aloud or have sometimes gone unspoken. This kitchen is the room we are likely to leave, last and return to, first.

I've spent many hours of my life in the kitchen.  No longer doing the things I've become known for, I blogg endlessly about some of those things that are, after all, a part of who I am.