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If there is one place I love to be in, it’s the kitchen. I believe, it’s the heart and soul of the house. It's the place to stand while you pour over a cookbook jotting down ingredients, the late night spot for shoveling spoonfuls of crumble into your mouth so hot it burns but you continue at speed. It’s where you sing your cheers on New Years eve, where you command people out of your way with a hot baking tray in hand, or trip over the dog who decides that the spot at your feet by a hot stove or next to the chopping board is the best place to be.
All my days begin here — and many of my favourite stories. On a typical day, my mind in a fog, I stumble down the stairs and make a mental to-do list of the things to action, the first is always to make coffee and then undo the dishwasher. Flicking on the lights below the cabinet to prepare the first espresso of the day, eyes crusted behind thick glasses, my hands move in muscle memory rhythm, my brain still powering up. My fiancé, the great love of my life, knows that the way to make me feel better about anything is through coffee. Even at four p.m. when coffee is out of the question unless I’m willing to sacrifice a good night’s sleep, he will suggest we venture out for cheeky afternoon lattés.
On one of our early dates, I baked him oatmeal cookies because he said they were his favourite. I sat at the counter of my parents house trying to find the perfect recipe to present what I had hoped would be an impressionable treat. We went to the movies and I snuck in a brown paper bag of five of them. He ate three and attempted to savour some for the next day. I’m not sure they made it.
After we got engaged, we stood in the small gap between the dinner table and the kitchen counter and I told him that I would need dance lessons. He laughed and held my hand, telling me we could move the furniture and practice at home. We swayed back and forth for a few minutes, my hands placed too high, my elbows sticking out like wings, eyes glued to my feet as we did a simple two step movement.
I think of my friend’s housewarming party a few years ago and I’m almost certain that kitchen parties are where the magic is. It’s the place to be, the inner party, the hub of the best booze, first pass at snacks and the ultimate small talk. It’s where the best people wander off to and linger around. It’s where you can somehow get stuck in a conversation with an Irish girl about her pet ferret and yet somehow it’s not boring at all. The inner party was where I had my first kiss and my first proper drink, a rum and coke, if you must know. After the crowd has trickled down to just a handful, the kitchen is where, if you’ve stuck around, you get the debrief, the last bag of crisps is passed around and you all sit on the floor, backs to cabinets. Everyone is happy drunk, the gossip is relayed, no boundaries and full stories are shared. Okay, wait what happened? No way, I can’t believe he did that. Wait, they’re still dating? Did you know that?
The kitchen is where, when I visit my parents, I will be promptly stationed for few hours in the evening preparing dinner, while my mother sits at the counter and tells me something funny my father had done that week — a story likely involving the dog. We give each other life updates, talk about the future and between instructions on how to best cook the chicken thighs, we reminisce.
Last December, I stood with my parents on Christmas Eve over a baked camembert drizzled with running honey, chili flakes and toasted walnuts. Using peppercorn crackers as spoons, we each dunked our piece in, fighting for a bit of melted cheese, washed down with a cold glass of white wine.
I suppose kitchens are the place for intimacy because food is not just nourishing for the body, but for every part of you. And when someone is willing to cook for you, to share a family recipe, to sit on the floor with you when you’re sad or make your cup of tea just right, there’s a certain level of romance and love in that. And it’s not necessarily a love’s love, but something else. Unspoken compassion for another person, perhaps. But more than that at the same time. And I guess that this essay is a sort of plea; a plea to ask you to notice the little things because they make up the majority of life; every mess your kid makes, every cold walk with the dog, every cup of tea for your granddad, every hug with your niece, every mundane, minor little action is what life is about and I hope you pay attention while you have the time.
What an absolutely gorgeous post, Natalie - another real treat of a read. Thank you. 😊
Wow. This piece was incredibly personal. My mom said at dinner day before yesterday that I shouldn't talk about food and cafe's lol. I had flat white. from a cafe for the first time today lol. Usually I have those Maybe I won't have it again tho. One of my fav shows in recent times has to be the bear and it's so lively and slice of life, especially in the first season. It's about a restaurant and people's passion for food and mental health. And it just connects food to life, it brings it to life. In my culture, food becomes a bit too overbearing sometimes. It overpowers all social convos. People live for eating lmao. So naturally, it drips into everything. All aspects of life. The building of food, just witnessing it, doing it, it could be therapeutic as well as frustrating sometimes. It's beautiful.