Most days, I bake in solitude, free from thoughts of school and homework. Our tiny kitchen is bathed in golden sunshine when I come home from school, tired and in need of a break. It beckons me, inviting, and I’m happy to oblige and tie the stained, checkered apron around my waist. As I scoop flour out of the bin and set out cubes of butter to soften to just the right temperature, I’m kept company by the kitchen’s soul.
It has personality; it’s a friend whom I can communicate with without the disruption of words. I am familiar with all of its quirks – the way the oven preheats in minutes I can count on one hand, though it runs a little hot. The gentle creak of the oven door opening before a rush of warm heat washes over my face. And the comforting hue of the oatmeal colored counter top, complete with dark rings of coffee stains and and the occasional stray crumb. No room is more familiar to me than this one, the kitchen which I’ve learned to love over the past year. No longer is it a place I wander into for a quick drink of ice cold water, or to pull out from the first drawer four sets of forks and knives on my way to set the dinner table. I’ve spent some of my happiest times in there, elated and grinning widely when a recipe turns out just right, and the most frustrating, tear-inducing moments I’ve lived through. But all of these moments are spent alone, until I share them with my family, and then here, on my blog. Read the rest of this entry »
