Sunday, October 18, 2009

Our Kitchen

On my refrigerator is a picture of my mother and I standing in the old kitchen when I was a teenager. The house was later remodeled and the old kitchen disappeared as a new one graced Mom with more cabinet space and all the luxury of a modern kitchen.

I love the memories of that old kitchen. Mom had a mirror over the sink. We could do dishes and still see anyone who might have come over for a visit at meal time still seated at the table. I could also see what my sister, June, was up to behind my back. When just a small fry, I took many a bath in that old sink.

The stove had a neat hole in the back where the deep fat fryer resided. It sat full of saturated fat waiting for the next batch of French fries. Dad's popcorn popper sat on the back burner. Wasn't a night that Dad didn't use it.

Next to the refrigerator hung the yardstick. I'm sure it was kept handy in case one of the rouge daughters got out of hand. It was a reminder that I might think twice before getting into trouble.

Best of all was the old cupboard. As a tiny child, I was permitted free range of the pots and pans. I wore pots on my head, pounded pots with an old spoon and removed all the pans once in awhile so I could hide inside the dark cabinet. There was an old flour bin on the upper part. I was permitted to turn the crank releasing the flour into Mom's dish for her daily pie baking. The small window in the bin permitted me to view the flour level as it dropped when I turned the tiny crank. 

Memories. Amazing where we capture them and where we hold them waiting for a time when we take them out and once more look at them, experience them. Some of my dearest memories happened in an old kitchen that held an old sink, stove, cupboard, refrigerator, table and chairs. On the wall hung a blackboard for notes for the family and a place for visitors to let us know they stopped by when we were gone. It was the hub, the center of our family, of our home. Warmly is welcomed, quietly it embraced and when it was gone, it remained a treasure.

Memories. Mine involved a pot on my head and bath in the sink. I hope your memories are as good as mine.

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