Kitchens

I've recently become addicted to the most wonderful website/blog: www.thepioneerwoman.com. It is beautiful, it's writer, Ree, is beautiful and for some reason it has caused me to think a lot about the kitchens in my life.

The kitchens of my childhood were vastly different. The first, built

by my father during his days as a home builder, was small, homey and wonderful. We lived in that house for about 8 years and during that time, my mother made homemade play-dough in that kitchen, I learned how to bake cookies, and a dear family friend helped me overcome my fear (or disdain?) of delicious pasta sauce (before that, I was a plain noodles kind of girl). That kitchen had a little breakfast nook attached and a closet for our washer and dryer. It was quaint, sweet. It was everything we needed.

When my parents' "dream home" went on the market when I was eight, we moved and the second kitchen of my childhood was quite different. It was an older house, and much bigger. I think you could probably fit 2 1/2 of our old houses into the one my parents still live in. The kitchen was more modern, but it did have fancier appliances: the previous owners, being big entertainers, saw fit to include double ovens, a trash compactor and a warming drawer. A bar was around with corner with a second sink. It had a pantry with a light that came on when you opened the door. It had a huge chopping block in the center with cabinets underneath. One of the cabinets pulled out for your mixer. I was fascinated by all of these things. As we lived and grew into the house, my parents made a few minor changes--replacing the countertops with honeyed Mexican tile, replacing the gas range with a 6-eye Viking gas range, and replacing other appliances as necessary.

I really learned to cook in that kitchen. Because my fathers office was at home (and actually just off the kitchen), and my mother worked for him, the only way we could get family time was to go out to eat at night. Away from business. Away from the ringing phone. While my mother is an excellent cook, a lot of nights she didn't have time to cook, and so this was just easier for everyone.

This was when I started cooking. Experimenting at first, but then growing braver, trying new recipes, making up my own. As soon as I got my drivers license, I started doing the family grocery shopping, another way to help my mom. Once that happened, I really started to dictate what we ate. My sister no longer lived in the house with us, so it was just my parents and me, and an occasional friend, for dinner. It was wonderful. This was were my "Food Projects" were born. Some days I kept it simple. Other days, I would labor for hours making an elaborate dessert or a dish that required necessary ingredients to marinade or soak overnight. I learned the importance of reading the entire recipe at least twice before embarking on a new culinary adventure. I loved it. I pretended I had my own cooking show. It was really a lot of fun.

When I went to college (the University of Missouri), one of the most depressing things for me was a lack of a kitchen. My parents insisted I live on campus (to meet people), but this meant dorm life and my first dorm room only had a tiny sink. Cafeteria food was disgusting. It was so bad that one night, I went to the staff and offered to come behind the food line and teach them how to make red beans & rice because "this clearly isn't it." And I would know. I'm from the South.

After a short-lived stint "up north," I moved back to Mississippi and started attending my parents' Alma Mater, Mississippi College. The food wasn't much better there, but at least I could go home and fix myself a home-cooked meal of my choice while waiting for my laundry to dry.

I then decided to study abroad and with that decision came my most interesting line of kitchens:

In France, I lived in an extended-stay hotel. My tiny little studio had a tiny little kitchen, equipped with 2 electric eyes, a microwave, a mini-fridge and a sink. Still, i managed to cook up a storm every night for myself and my friends. I made soups, fried chicken, and a whole host of other fun treats, all from scratch. I would spend hours at the grocery store, studying my options (and a lot of times, trying to figure out what things were!). My little kitchen was crammed with goodies and always smelled delicious.

In Spain, I had a bigger apartment. And roommates. I also had a sink that caved in halfway through my stay there, a gas stove (4 eyes) and an gas oven that only worked if you sat next to it and held a button down. We only used it as a giant toaster oven. Still, I had more counter space and a full-sized fridge, so I was happy.

I soon found myself back at my parents house for a brief time before K and I got married. Once we did marry, I moved into his efficient townhouse, and my days of cooking over an electric stove were back. His kitchen was small, efficient, and very open to the other rooms in the house, which was nice. There was no pantry, but plenty of cabinet space. I moved in, planted a garden in the backyard, and got busy. For three months. Then I got pregnant, and began looking for a new place, a bigger place, for us to live. And a bigger kitchen.

The kitchen I have now, I basically designed the re-model for from the ground up. When we bought the house, the kitchen had... well... potential. It also had beveled mirrors for the backsplash, old lady wallpaper, electric eyes and seriously dated appliances. While it had double ovens, they were too small for my cookware, and had to go. Even the sink was too small, and everything was trimmed in pink. It did however, have the most delightful skylight that provides so much natural light, I rarely turn on the lights during the day. So, a mere 4 weeks before the birth of my first child, we bought the house and started the renovations.

Beadboard backsplash. A 4-eye Viking gas range with a Viking gas oven underneath. The double ovens were torn out and open shelves were put in, the lowest one high enough for my KitchenAid mixer. New fridge, new sink. Improved lighting underneath the cabinets, which also got a makeover with new cabinet doors. Everything got re-painted. The countertops were the biggest challenge. Granite was the trend at the time, except it would have looked weird in our Arts & Crafts style home. And besides, I hated granite. I wanted something different and more natural. So, two weeks before I gave birth, my dad called me.

"Hey," he said. "I was thinking about your countertops."

"Ok," I said, thinking please, please, please have thought up a great solution.

"What about bowling alley?"

"What about it?"

"I can get you some bowling alley, for free and we can sand it and refinish it. It'll look just like butcher block."

I perked up. I wanted butcher block. I craved butcher block. Except that butcher block was cost-prohibitive and I was already over budget. But FREE?!? Yes, please!

So we went to a bowling alley, owned by a friend of my dad's, and he told me to pick out whatever I wanted. The storage space behind the lanes was filled with old alleys and and the mans crew, along with a forklift followed me around as I picked out what I thought I needed.

We hauled it home and the carpenters got to work.

Because of the novelty, we kept some of the dots and arrows, which can be seen peeking out from underneath certain appliances. K and Dad sanded and oiled it. I love it, and have vowed to never again live in a house that doesn't have bowling alley countertops.

Here they are in action:

And finally, I had my kitchen. My very own. With a pantry, and a skylight, and a place for all my Le Creuset. And even a cabinet big enough to store my huge paella pans, pizza stone and roasting pan.

This is the only kitchen my son has ever known. When he's looking for me in the house, he automatically goes to the kitchen.

Here I am with my then 2-week old son, slung on my back, hard at work:

I make ice cream and cookies, roasts and sauces. I experiment. I keep a laptop in there so I can reference recipes. I host dinner parties, football Saturday spreads and have even had Thanksgiving dinner and Christmas celebrations come out of my kitchen. I have my highly-organized cookbooks, cooking magazines and food journals in one specific cabinet. My marble slab lives on the countertop, as does a basket of onions and garlic. I always have a Food Project in the works. And it is wonderful.