I don’t feel out of place when I’m not in the kitchen… but it’s definitely the place I hang the most in my home. I’m even typing this sitting at my kitchen table on my laptop while I wait for my morning java to brew.
So I’m sitting here, listening to the coffee trickle into the carafe, and I’m smelling both the coffee and the lovely, fresh, ripe nectarines my neighbor gave me yesterday. I’m imagining a lovely cobbler for dessert, using the nectarines and some blueberries I bought on a good sale the other day. Blueberries and nectarines, cinnamon and ginger, warm fruit topped with soft biscuits. Cobbler was my grandmother’s speciality. Everything else she cooked was banned by the Geneva Convention as cruel and unusual punishment, but her cobblers were to die for.
Then I think perhaps a quiche would make a lovely dinner, along with a fresh spinach salad. Anything in a pie crust is where I shine my brightest. I’ve got some broccoli, or I might use those cute little zucchini that came in my CSA box this week.
And so I can spend hours imagining what to bake, and then prepping the ingredients, gathering my equipment, and finally actually making delicious things to eat.
Afterwards, there’s clean up and the satisfaction of a meal well made and eaten.
So yes, the kitchen is my home within my home. It has been since my father carefully walked me through the process of making my very first batch of cookies when I was six. It’s where I used to sit and discuss issues large and small with my mother as she cooked. It’s where everything smells good and I know my efforts will succeed.
What could possibly be more comfortable than that?