When I think about "home," I think of my mom's kitchen - big, immaculate, and somehow empty. The red Mexican tiles on the floor, the over-stuffed brown leather couch, the wood-burning fireplace, and my mom, inside the island in the kitchen, cooking.
What she cooked was never magnificent - yes, she had her prized dishes, mostly her strawberry pie, chocolate sheath cake, and, dad's favorite, banana cake with double the cream cheese icing recipe - but, while the meals were never grandiose, they were always delicious and made with love. One of my favorite meals was her chicken and rice, made in an electric skillet with cream of mushroom soup and a little bit of cooking sherry. I've never been able to recreate the buttery goodness that seems to have been the product of using an outdated cooking skillet. I also relished her goulash, which was more a style than a specific recipe, I guess, since it was simply an assortment of ground meat, lots of meat, corn, macaroni, and whatever else she put in the make it delicious, and seasoned with a couple bay leaves. What a fantastic wonder to a teenage girl who didn't know a thing about cooking - I was always delighted when I accidentally got a bay leaf in my bowl: "Mom! I got a leaf! Is this edible?!" and her inevitable response, "No, Kelsie, don't eat that!" followed by mock embarrassment and a show of throwing the intruder into the mechanical trashcan on her side of the island.
Oh, that mechanical trashcan! How much disdain it caused during my childhood. Not only was I the only kid I knew who had one, but it was a constant point of unspoken contention among the family. Whereas, it seemed, my parents thought it best to smash the garbage and leave it that way, compressed, until the next person need use it (for that's what it was, a compressor), I always thought it should the job of the person who compressed the garbage last to leave the trash unlocked - easily accessible to the next victim of rubbish. Can't you imagine being that person, having just cracked an egg and trying to dispose of the broken shell without getting too much goo on your hands (salmonella!) only to be thwarted by the locked garbage can? The solution was easy, of course, all one had to do was nudge the bottom of the contraption upward to unlock (downward to compress and lock), wait about 30 seconds, and then, voila! Opensesame, but, those 30 seconds seem an eternity when your hands are covered in raw chicken, oozing egg whites, or, god forbid, peanut butter!
In fact, if I'm perfectly honest, I'd have to admit that the kitchen itself was a place of contention for a number of years during my turbulent teens in the mornings. How much I loathed the sight of both my parents awaiting my arrival to the kitchen before school in the mornings, lovingly reading the newspaper, buttered toast getting soggy on a plate for me, accompanied by a glass of iced tea or juice, and full of questions for their teenage daughter. Didn't they know that teenagers are not morning people and don't like to talk about their personal lives to their parents, at least not at 7:00 in the morning? Apparently they didn't, being the great parents they were, I'm sure they'd read somewhere that parents need to communicate with their teenagers, ask them about their friends and happenings at school, and show support - which they did, to no end, but I was not reciprocal to their barrage of questions in the morning. I remember sulking into the kitchen and being greeting with my mother's perky, "Those jeans look great! Where'd you get them?" and actually responding with, "Please don't compliment my physical appearance," as if I was so over vanity, as if I hadn't tried on three different outfits that morning before emerging into the world, and as if I didn't agree, that yes, these jeans DID look great on me! It became so loathsome to me that I recall a number of times actually avoiding the kitchen altogether, detouring through the atrium in the mornings and out the side door to avoid these abhorred interactions.
I never meant to be so hateful, though. In fact, after I realized how brazen I'd become, I would spend all morning, as I showered and blow-dried my hair psyching myself up, coming up with appropriate responses for the inevitable forthcoming small talk. There was a long hallway between my bedroom and the kitchen and I spent many mornings traversing this hallway with the sole mantra, "Just be kind to Mom today," it was just my mom that mattered because my dad is hard of hearing and rarely had his hearing aids in in the mornings, and many mornings, he'd already left for work anyway, so it was only my mom there to greet me. I'd clench my jaw and enter, but all gumption would evaporate as I was faced with my glowing mother's smile in the morning. What was it that was so insufferable to me about her happiness? Was it because I did not feel blissful every morning, or many other times during the day, and actually had a tendency toward depression that I couldn't tolerate her mirth? Or did I already suspect what I now know to be true of all adults, which is that much of adulthood is simply sucking up the unpleasantries of life, embracing the small pleasures, and pretending that the good outweighs the bad every day? How I despised artificiality, and still do, and perhaps I saw a glimmer of disingenuity in my mother's eyes, but her affection was never ingenuine, only her acceptance of her lot in life, I think.
The lovely thing about my mother, though, is that she always forgave me and never held these grouchy mornings against me. I'm not as much of a monster as I may sound; I could never make it all the way out of the neighborhood without calling her from my cell phone and apologizing for being so mean. I was miserable, internally, and I think she knew it. She always put others before herself in that way. I've since asked her how she put up with me during those years and she says, "I always knew you'd call and apologize before I was done cleaning up the plates."
I remember the kitchen as somewhat empty though because, however large it was, we rarely filled the space. My sister and I were busy with separate obligations: school, boyfriends, choir, church, and so we rarely had sit-down dinners together at the table. Oftentimes, mom would prepare a stew, dinner, goulash - something reheatable, and leave it on the stove for whoever wanted it. Sometimes this would be ready by the time I came home from school in the afternoon, other times, I'd get home to an empty house - mom'd gone out to run some errands, Dad still at work, sister still at school, and I'd have some Easy Mac or graham crackers with peanut butter to hold me over until dinner. It was a vast space though, large and accommodating - there was an island with 6 chairs and a couch which could seat another half dozen people, and we rarely even congregated just the four of us. And many afternoons (and this is still true), I'd come home to just my mom, sitting in the kitchen, on the phone, the computer, or cooking something, and that's when we'd have our good chats. She'd ask me about my day, my friends, my boyfriend, and I was finally ready to communicate. In retrospect, I loved how she knew the name of my teachers, my friends, and empathized with me over fights between friends and relationships. Even now, when I make it home for a weekend or mid-week visit, I look forward to sitting around the island in those uncomfortable wire-backed chairs (who knows why we never sit on the comfortable couch), drinking wine, and reminiscing.
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