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forgeandwell
Jan. 20th, 2007 02:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
trystinnLast night, I lit the candle before pushing up my sleeves. Our kitchen sits at the front corner of our home, giving me a wonderful three-window view of the spiral walk in our front yard. I realized as I washed and re-organized around the sink that I have literally spent most of my life looking out windows just like this.
"Like many post-WWII families, my Jewish grandparents settled into a track home community. The design of their house was replicated with minimal and nominal changes all over their neighborhood. My grandmother's kitchen was a small dark galley kitchen, with one window looking out under the carport to her neighbor's kitchen window in a home exactly like her own. Many, many a night these two women would wash the family dishes and wave at each other across the carports. Betty French and Mary Neely were as different as two women could be. Betty was a good Catholic from Texas, Mary a lapsed Jew from Ohio. Their farmer's daughter roots laid the foundation for a lifetime of friendship, nonetheless, with Mary naming her youngest daughter after her friend.
My entire childhood is framed by the Frenchs, particularly Betty's no-nonsense pragmatism and her capable hands. Camping trips, Mr. French driving us to movies in his white El Camino, growing Sea Monkeys in Betty's canning jars. Whenever she saw me in her backyard she'd come outside, pulling hair ties out of one of her thousand aprons to plait my hair in braids so I wouldn't get it dirty. It never occured to me that she must have bought those just for those moments, her own hair was very short and she had no daughters or granddaughters. To this day, no one has detangeled my curls with the gentleness of Betty French. And certainly no one looked for Sea Monkeys with me as diligently as Betty French, usually after pulling a hankerchief out of her apron and cleaning both our glasses so we could see better.
The seasons of childhood are celebrated in the Kitchen. In Winter, the women would make huge batches of cookies and carmel corn. In Summer, it was sweet corn and large fiestaware & tupperware bowls of potato and macaroni salads. Spring & Fall were canning and jam-making, and certainly nothing brings back those halcyon days quite like the whirl of a Kitchen Aid mixer. Betty made each of the women her own apron, all of the same pattern, covering front and back with versatile deep double pockets. Mary embroidered each one differently, her own covered in sunflowers and watermelons, Betty's with forget-me-nots and daisies.
Men and children were chased out from under foot and as often as not, I'd be allowed to stay as long as I read quietly on the davenport. Closing my eyes, I can still hear their shrill voices telling jokes, laughing and sharing stories. When the voices grew soft, I'd put my head down and pretend to sleep. Under this guise I learned all the family history I was too young to hear. The feel of those wrinkled, papery hands brushing hair out of my face and taking my glasses off will stay with me until my dying day.
Instead of watermelons and sunflowers, my kitchen is decorated with grapevines and gargoyles. I have my own Kitchen Aid mixer now, but my bowl preference runs to stainless steel and pottery. The drawers are filled with kitchen tools and cookie cutters from her own kitchen, though I'll admit the use of some is beyond my ken. There is witch in the kitchen, but I stand on my own feet intead of hanging in the window like hers did. Instead of glass bluebirds, my windowsills are filled with shells from the beach a mile up the street. I think grandmother would approve."
This morning, I drank coffee and looked out my windows. Across decades and miles, some things will never change. And if you ask me where I'm from, wondering how I came to be and my concepts of Creation, I will tell you I come from the Kitchen because that is the only truth I know.
"Like many post-WWII families, my Jewish grandparents settled into a track home community. The design of their house was replicated with minimal and nominal changes all over their neighborhood. My grandmother's kitchen was a small dark galley kitchen, with one window looking out under the carport to her neighbor's kitchen window in a home exactly like her own. Many, many a night these two women would wash the family dishes and wave at each other across the carports. Betty French and Mary Neely were as different as two women could be. Betty was a good Catholic from Texas, Mary a lapsed Jew from Ohio. Their farmer's daughter roots laid the foundation for a lifetime of friendship, nonetheless, with Mary naming her youngest daughter after her friend.
My entire childhood is framed by the Frenchs, particularly Betty's no-nonsense pragmatism and her capable hands. Camping trips, Mr. French driving us to movies in his white El Camino, growing Sea Monkeys in Betty's canning jars. Whenever she saw me in her backyard she'd come outside, pulling hair ties out of one of her thousand aprons to plait my hair in braids so I wouldn't get it dirty. It never occured to me that she must have bought those just for those moments, her own hair was very short and she had no daughters or granddaughters. To this day, no one has detangeled my curls with the gentleness of Betty French. And certainly no one looked for Sea Monkeys with me as diligently as Betty French, usually after pulling a hankerchief out of her apron and cleaning both our glasses so we could see better.
The seasons of childhood are celebrated in the Kitchen. In Winter, the women would make huge batches of cookies and carmel corn. In Summer, it was sweet corn and large fiestaware & tupperware bowls of potato and macaroni salads. Spring & Fall were canning and jam-making, and certainly nothing brings back those halcyon days quite like the whirl of a Kitchen Aid mixer. Betty made each of the women her own apron, all of the same pattern, covering front and back with versatile deep double pockets. Mary embroidered each one differently, her own covered in sunflowers and watermelons, Betty's with forget-me-nots and daisies.
Men and children were chased out from under foot and as often as not, I'd be allowed to stay as long as I read quietly on the davenport. Closing my eyes, I can still hear their shrill voices telling jokes, laughing and sharing stories. When the voices grew soft, I'd put my head down and pretend to sleep. Under this guise I learned all the family history I was too young to hear. The feel of those wrinkled, papery hands brushing hair out of my face and taking my glasses off will stay with me until my dying day.
Instead of watermelons and sunflowers, my kitchen is decorated with grapevines and gargoyles. I have my own Kitchen Aid mixer now, but my bowl preference runs to stainless steel and pottery. The drawers are filled with kitchen tools and cookie cutters from her own kitchen, though I'll admit the use of some is beyond my ken. There is witch in the kitchen, but I stand on my own feet intead of hanging in the window like hers did. Instead of glass bluebirds, my windowsills are filled with shells from the beach a mile up the street. I think grandmother would approve."
This morning, I drank coffee and looked out my windows. Across decades and miles, some things will never change. And if you ask me where I'm from, wondering how I came to be and my concepts of Creation, I will tell you I come from the Kitchen because that is the only truth I know.
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no subject
Date: 2007-01-20 11:00 pm (UTC)Thank you for posting this. I was going to post that I was silly, I had gotten my days mixed up and also did a vigil last night, but now I think maybe it wasn't such a mix up after all considering my childhood dreams.
Again, thank you.
no subject
Date: 2007-01-20 11:13 pm (UTC)You are most welcome. My grandmother's birthday is at Imbolc, so I become very nostalgic of her this time of year.
I worry about the generations of children growing up without their elders to guide them. What use will childhood have for these kids when their only memories of are video games, television and technology?
no subject
Date: 2007-01-21 08:17 am (UTC)Come canning season though - the kitchen was Mom's. And Oma's.
Someday I WILL learn to can.
My kitchen is full of interesting tools, books and strange ingredients and spices. It is almost home - as soon as it has some gnomes and more colour - it will be home.
no subject
Date: 2007-02-20 07:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-20 06:17 pm (UTC)I've got to get some loose wool, some of a particular type of cloth and thread (it's easy to get).
Mostly just been a wee bit depressed. *shrug*
rough winter.
However I've been re-arranging my home and now there's plenty of room for Magic :)
no subject
Date: 2007-02-20 06:27 pm (UTC)