As a sort of dyed-in-the-wool farm boy at heart, I kind of lament the passing of those wonderful rooms we call kitchen. Oh I know, all homes have kitchen, but I'm not talking about those little alcoves designers pass off as kitchens these days. I'm talking about those massive old kitchens we used to have years ago, with a table in the center of the room that would comfortably seat 12 or 15 people. The most beautiful kitchen I can remember was in my uncles old homestead not far from where I was born. I used to love to visit him just because of that one room. At meal time it always smelled of fresh rolls and beef gravy. The table, a stout oak monster of a piece, would groan under the burden of the steaming bowls at meal time. Often three or four families would sit down at the table and after Grace was said you'd hear nothing but the clash of steel. Great decisions were made at that table on all family matters, and everyone present, from the youngest to the oldest would have a say in shaping those decisions. During the pauses in conversation, and there weren't many, you could hear the crackling of the dry wood in the old stove that sat against one wall. Everything about the room was friendly and inviting and when the table was set, no stranger who knocked at the door was ever turned away. In the rainy season, or during the cold winter months, you'd see children's mittens and heavy gray wool and socks drying on the rod behind the range, and often the oven door was dropped to accommodate five or six pairs of children's overshoes, the six buckle kind, that had been placed there for drying. From early in the morning till late at night that big old kitchen was the center of life in that gracious home. I don't know who lives there now, but I feel sure that if they close their eyes and are very quiet, they will still hear the echoes of the wonderfully happy times we used to have in that kitchen so many, many years ago.
No comments:
Post a Comment