My Kitchen

As I smell the aroma of brownie batter awaiting its trip to the oven, and the sizzling marinated chicken on the stove, I am reminded that my kitchen is the home to many of my memories that include everything from happy birthday dinners to troubled moments. Naturally, I gravitate towards my kitchen, because of its warm and cozy vibes. Not only is my kitchen a place where I am able to eat my worries away, but also a place where my mind is most capable. Whether I’m struggling with a math problem, or just need a place to release stress from a long day, my kitchen is always there. To the left, the large white refrigerator is the first piece of furniture that meets the eye. Across from what I have dubbed “the fridgerator” is the granite countertop that holds the sink and features a shiny metal paper towel roll. Catty cornered from the refrigerator is a stainless steel stove that, at closer inspection, reveals the wear and tear of many years of oil stains. The wooden pantry door holds an abundance of junk food, which my dad keeps thus stocked against my mother’s wishes. The other cabinets in the kitchen contain a large collection of pots and pans, as well as a plethora of unused electronic devices given as gifts throughout the years. The enormous dark brown kitchen table, which comfortably seats eight in a three-person house, is home to scattered paperwork and my over filled backpack. The table is surrounded by windows, which display a three hundred and sixty degree cascading view of a lush and green backyard.

Though the kitchen is mainly a peaceful setting, it can also be a place of distraction. The loud splashing of water from the faucet, the alarm that beeps every time a door is opened, and my mother’s voice that carries from throughout the house are all reminders that I’m not alone. When I was younger, we often sat down at that big table to have dinner, but as my father started working later, and I began having more homework, we drifted away from the regular family meal, and the table instead became a comfort zone where I could complete my homework. Rarely do we still sit down these days, but when we do, a mountain of papers, binders, pencils and flash cards must be re-located in order to do so. We are a family of fast eaters, with me being the fastest, so it seems like all the effort is a bit silly for the short amount we actually remain seated, because then the gargantuan task of bringing back all my materials must be undertaken again. The kitchen table is not only a comfort by day. Late at night, my friends and I will sneak down to gather around the kitchen table and gossip over recent drama. We raid the fridge and take out “chocolate therapy” Ben and jerry’s ice cream, and dig in; careless of fat content or calories. Once done, we toss the dirty ice cream bowls into the sink, and silently make our way back up to my room, so as not to wake my parents, and inevitably pass out from the amount of junk food we consumed. Even when I do not have friends sleeping over, I often find myself sneaking down the stairs in the middle of the night to sate my thirst or hunger. My mother has told me that I have been doing this ever since I was little, and yet, when morning comes, I cannot recall doing it.

As I have grown older, I have learned to navigate the kitchen by myself, learning from my mother and father how to prepare some of my favorite “comfort foods.” I prepare everything from grilled cheese sandwiches to luscious brownies, and the whole house will be scented with the aroma of whatever it is I am cooking. The act of preparing foods I love is has a calming effect on me, and now that I am older, my mother no longer fears I will burn the house down while experimenting with different recipes. In fact, she now often smells the chocolate, and instead of heading down in a panic, she eagerly awaits what I have been cooking. More often than not, she and I will gobble most of it down before my dad even gets the chance to get his hands on my creations. My kitchen is not only the literal center of our house, but the metaphoric center as well. While it is used like most kitchens arese, my kitchen holds meaning beyond food preparation and consumption; it is the place where I feel centered and grounded. It is the place where I do my best work, form my best ideas, resolve my inner disputes, and make peace with family and friends alike. My kitchen is peppered with memories, and when I feel down or sad, it is a place I go to for comfort. I can remember, simply by looking at all the pictures, paintings, and artwork that is contained there, that I have survived a small life time of ups and downs in this very space. My kitchen will remain embedded in my memory with fondness and warmth, long after I have left it, to go on to create a life of my own, and when I do, I will make certain that my very own kitchen will be a place of refuge to my own children.