2012-01-19 - 10:15 a.m.

My Mother's Kitchen

It wasn't always this way: my mother and I, shoulder to shoulder, preparing a meal. My mother's kitchen was an unwelcoming room when I was a child. I still have memories of my mother still sleeping as I readied myself for school in the morning, pushing a chair up to the stove, climbing onto the stove to reach the cupboard where she stored the cereal.

My mother would disappear for days when I was young. I don't remember fear or apprehension over these events, but I remember the days when she was gone and my father would rule the kitchen: all the lights on and the windows open, Cat Stevens playing on the stereo. He would make eggs for breakfast. He would make spaghetti for dinner. Or tuna melts. Or put me in the front seat of his car and drive me to Arby's for a kid's meal. Always, there would be a small can of Del Monte pudding for dessert. Always, I would be allowed to watch television in the living room with all the lights on. And always, I would wake in the morning, tucked safely in my bed, my Snorks bedspread wrapped around me as the sun crept into my bedroom window.

Sometimes, my mother would have returned in the early morning and she would be sleeping in her bed as if she was never gone. On these mornings, it was my duty to prepare her breakfast: two eggs over easy, two pieces of white toast, buttered, coffee with cream, no sugar. She would drink the coffee and use the toast to sop up the egg yolks and offer me the whites. She would spend the rest of the day in her bedroom, lying in bed and watching television on the old Sylvania that was my Nana's, and talking to her friends on the telephone. On these evenings, no one entered the kitchen. It sat dark and neglected while we ordered take out and ate in front of the television.

If the mood struck her, my mother would spend the entire day in the kitchen, preparing elaborate meals and desserts that would erase the memories of her foul moods from our minds. So pleasant and delicious were these meals, my brother and I still beg her to prepare them now that we are adults. To us, they are comfort foods with a double meaning. These few dishes meant things were going to be okay, normalcy would reign supreme for a few days, a few weeks. Never did it cross our minds to see these dinners as a warning, storm clouds on the horizon. In those moments, we could bask in the rays of our mother's love, in the safety of fresh bread and vegetables, the calm before the storm. On these nights, the kitchen was warm and inviting, glowing, the scents of butter and roasted meat in the air like rich banners of the deepest purple and gold.

As I grew older, these meals occurred less and less. My mother would count the cookies in the cookie jar, packets of ramen in the cupboard, mark tubs of ice cream with a sharpie pen so anyone taking more than a scoop would be questioned. I prepared most dinners. Holiday meals were tense at best: all food prepared by my mother was reserved for guests and monitored constantly. I made two pies my last Thanksgiving before leaving home. My mother threw both away, furious over some slight and suddenly "embarrassed" to serve my pies with their delicate crusts, their tops decorated with leaves cut from the extra dough and sprinkled with coarse sugar. The kitchen was dark and cold that day. I barely remember the turkey or her mashed potatoes. I can't tell you the conversations had at the table or whether it was a festive event. I boarded a bus to Florida the next day and didn't return for Thanksgiving for twelve years.

The first Thanksgiving we spent together when I moved back was a happy one. My mother and I worked in the same space to prepare the Thanksgiving meal for our family in a way that two strangers might share a space if assigned the task of working together. I did not know my mother's cooking style, nor did she know mine. We divvied up the dishes and each set out to complete the meal by 4 o'clock. We were polite to each other without sharing much. Our family was fed, the turkey wasn't dry and the sides were delicious. Everyone agreed Thanksgiving was a success. A pact was made in the kitchen on that day, a peace treaty, arms were laid down, an old ghost put to rest.

Now, my mother and I move about in the kitchen as if one force. Heads together, discussing new recipes, stealing tastes of each other's dishes and complimenting and critiquing each other without ire. Our meals are perfect, our families satisfied and well-fed. There is no one taking inventory, only the voices of the cooks saying "eat, eat!". We might all take a walk after dinner. We might go see a movie or visit relatives. The mood is most definitely festive and we enjoy the company.

It wasn't always this way, and it has taken many years and many changes for both myself and my mother for us to be able to meet in the most unlikely of places: a kitchen. Still, I prefer my kitchen to my mother's. My kitchen is always well-lit, there is always the smell of something baking in the air. I serve dinner to my family every night without fail. On the rare occasion I serve take out, it is still around the dining room table. There is always a clean tablecloth, crisp white napkins pressed and neatly folded, silver shining, glasses full. There are no pen marks on the tubs of ice cream in my freezer.

My cereal is kept in the bottom cupboard.

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