Daisy recently posted a lovely poem about her mother's kitchen. Below is something I wrote a bazillion years ago. It's a blend of truth and fiction and what I so desperately yearned for. My mother's kitchen is happy only because of my invention... yet, never be mistaken... I loved my mother dearly.


My Mother's Kitchen

There was a time in life that if I had been at a party and spotted my mother across a crowded room, I would've been hopelessly drawn to her. I would've wanted to be her best friend. I would've said, "let's do lunch," and would've meant it.

I would've been drawn to her beauty at first. My mother was French and exotic. Her olive complexion was complemented by short, black, curly hair. Her eyes were soft, her gaze strong. Her neck was long and graceful. When she laughed, she threw her head back and her hair bounced like an echo and her mouth flew open to show her perfect teeth. Her laughter tickled the air like a wind chime. She also sang and played the piano while her friends leaned in with song and martinis. She was splendid and beautiful. She was the woman my father fell in love with.

Not only was my mother exotic and gay, she was anchored in what a family should be. When I was a young child, my mother's kitchen was the very heartbeat of nourishment where both the body and soul were fed.

When I think of my mother's three-square kitchen, my senses cartwheel though the aromas that mortared the very framework of our home. My mother's kitchen wore as comfortable as the terry cloth robe she sashed each morning as we bantered like flapjack fillips about the day ahead. I knew nothing but love. And my mom's love was handcrafted daily by her uncomplicated genius.

Every morning the floppy cadence of her slippers would slap across our hardwood floors. Her voice purred like a contented cat on the lap of a river stone hearth as she coiled my hair into Shirley Temple curls and her silken voice would gently chide me to eat my breakfast. She was always saying things like, "You have to feed the tummy if you plan to feed the mind." She'd then wrap my lunch in wax paper with mitered folds.

In her beloved domain my mother would line the staples and spices a-row as she stirred a pinch of this and a dash of that into her sweetened medleys. My mother's kitchen was an orderly kitchen, yet richly basted with aromatic chaos. Paned cupboards showcased neat sheaves of thick and colorful plates; jam jars marched in straight rows; teacups dangled from brass hooks. My mother rarely used recipes because they were recorded on her heart, stirred by rote. Her kitchen was a rumbling roundhouse where time came full circle each evening with a simple place setting graced with thanksgiving.

After school, buttery goodness and chocolate skated across my lips with her chocolate cookies. The memory evokes such gratitude for having experienced simpler times and the feelings of love, safety, and serenity. I can remember my mother's hugs. I would bury my face in her apron and smell cinnamon and leeks and love.

So much more than sustenance is stirred in a kitchen if it's recognized for mystical properties. A kitchen is a fundamental, almost divine state of complete well being. A mystical kitchen is indexed with secret ingredients as wondrous as an alchemist's handbook. I can close my eyes and hear billowing mists of flour. I can hear the tinny clank of cookie cutters. I can smell the pregnant bulge of yeasty dough eager to breathe life into its rounded cargo. I can hear the crackling pleasure of a well-basted turkey. My heart will forever hear sounds that no one else will hear.

****

This is the woman I prefer to remember.