Previous Challenge Entry (Level 2 – Intermediate)
Topic: In The Kitchen - deadline 7-19-12 @ 9:59 AM NY Time (07/12/12)
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TITLE: KITCHEN TIME | Previous Challenge Entry
By Sally Schrock
07/18/12 -
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One thing I have learned is that kitchen time becomes drudgery if you are in a hurry. When I slow down and approach it with the right attitude I find cooking therapeutic, even spiritual. I’ve turned off the TV to meditate on a passage of Scripture or contemplate the myriad ways I am blessed while chopping, peeling, paring or stirring. Designating cleanup as a time to pray for those I love combines my Mary and Martha tendencies and brings fulfillment on two distinct levels.
Being in the kitchen has also taken me back to sweet, happy times of yesterday. I grew up in Indiana where the winters are cold, and the kitchen was one of only two rooms in the house that were heated. Clothes for the next day were carefully laid out each night so that in the morning I could make a mad dash for the warmth of the kitchen to get dressed. I would chatter at my mother while eating breakfast, which was always the same: white bread toast and hot cocoa.
I loved being in my grandmother’s kitchen. A survivor of the Great Depression, no expense was spared in her cooking. If a recipe called for margarine, she used butter. If it called for whole milk, she used cream. The appliances were new; her gadgets were cutting edge. (In those days, cutting edge meant a shiny new flour sifter and a stainless steel hand grater.) I can close my eyes and see her, apron-clad, frying eggs over easy while bacon sizzled in the cast iron skillet.
My grandfather had a terrible habit of going to the bathroom at the exact moment grandma was ready to serve a meal. She would call him in a normal voice, “Virg. Supper is ready."
No response because he had just shut the bathroom door.
The second call would be louder and more intense, “Virgil. Supper!”
The third call always came just as he was heading toward the kitchen. This one was accompanied by a sharp twirl away from the stove, plate in hand, and a stomp of her foot: “VIRGIL! (stomp) SUPPER IS READY!”
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he would mutter as he walked into the kitchen. We all saw it so often it has remained a family joke for years.
When my own children were little they played on the kitchen floor, often right under my feet while I was in the kitchen. To keep them from making a mess, I filled one bottom drawer with safe kitchen gadgets, designated only for them. As they became teenagers and the days moved at warp speed, the whole family would waltz around each other in our tiny kitchen, one preparing a salad, another slicing bread, the third setting the table. Constant chatter about everyone’s day was background music for the lively dance.
I hope this longing to spend time in the kitchen never ends. Quiet moments, rewarding work, happy memories, and hot, gooey cinnamon rolls coming out of the oven—it really doesn’t get any better than this.
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