Kitchen Memories
I have an abundance of happy childhood memories.
That makes me a pretty lucky guy.
They’re mostly simple memories (although – full disclosure – I still vividly remember my first trip to Disneyland. Big life events do have their place!). But beyond the Magic Kingdom – when it was still a rather new travel destination – my head is full of the simple, simple things.
Climbing trees. Building a club house. Box car derbies in the neighborhood. The kind of things you don’t hear about all that often today. One would think I’m a 90-year-old.
But I’m not. I just have a very good memory. From a very simple town. In the middle of cornfields.
Many of those childhood memories took place in our kitchen. In the days when kitchens were the unglamorous workhorses in the family home. Functional. Sturdy. Ours was small. But for all of our kitchen’s simplicity, it was overflowing with the most important ingredient: it had a heart.
If I was looking for my mom, the first place I’d look would be the kitchen.
And 90% of the time I’d find her there. Cooking. Baking. And usually singing along with the radio. Covered often with flour.
Our kitchen is where I’d sit – every morning of my youth – and start each day with breakfast. My brothers and I sat in birth order – which made me (son #5) relegated to the far, end of the table. Siberia.
But I was still at the table. And while I was the runt of the litter, I was part of the family.
My mom – enjoying a rare quiet moment in her kitchen!
I often think about those days – now that I’m a parent.
I think about those days as I prepare yet one more breakfast, pack one more lunch bag, or boil one more pot of water for a basic dish of pasta and parmesan cheese for my youngest.
I think about it when I’m caught in the business of daily rituals. And the sometimes mundaneness of what it feels like to care for the people I love.
Then I remember.
That tucked within the simple daily acts of love – and care – reside the memories my own children will recall.
And that gives meaning to my every day.