Love Offerings from the Kitchen
Christmas 2010
Breakfast hosted by my sister Sheri
As I was growing up, my family ate dinner together around the dining room table. In our kitchen, my mother was the primary cook of all the meals. There were times my sister ot I had to get dinner started if we arrived home before our mother. I made many mistakes, but they were never criticized at the table. But we all knew when it was bad; like the time I fried the chicken too fast.
When I recall these memories, I think of meals produced in that kitchen for holidays, special occasions, birthdays, and everyday sustenance for our family. I even remember Dad being supportive of the time I wanted to make twice baked potatoes that took what seemed like forever to make. It was such a random item to cook.
I learned a lot by watching my parents, particularly my mother, in the kitchen. Consciously, I picked up cooking tips and techniques as a youth that I remember and use today. Subconsciously, I learned how love - through food created and cooked in a kitchen - is shared with others. Cooking in our kitchen was love in action and love as an offering.
The kitchen in my childhood home produced food for many occasions that kept us connected to our extended families. Salads, ribs and snacks prepared for sharing with aunts, uncles, cousins and others at family reunion picnics at the park or a meal given to a family when a loved one who has died, all came out of this kitchen. In addition to love, food shared with our families outside the walls of our home was a way of remembering our connection through our shared ancestry.
Thanksgiving Eve was one of my favorite occasions to be in or around the kitchen with my mother as she prepped for the big event the following day. I’ll always remember the warmth of the kitchen mixed with the scent of sage, the sound of chopping onions, and the sight of pans filled with sweet potatoes, macaroni and cheese, collards greens and other holiday staples. That evening, my sibs and I would gather at the house to laugh and chat while listening to Al Jarreau, the Crusaders, George Shearing, and other jazz mom loved.
I attribute my love of hospitality and cooking to my mom.
Earlier this month, I found myself sitting alone on my couch missing my mom who passed away this week one year ago. As I cried, it felt like buckets of tears were pouring out of my eyes. In this state, I couldn’t think of anything but her last painful days in the hospital. I didn’t know what to do with myself. As I cried alone, I wanted to call my sisters, but they were working so I decided against it.
Hours later, I felt an urge to go to the kitchen. Once there, I somehow felt a desire to cook. I began to see what I could put together. There were fresh green beans cleaned and snapped in the refrigerator next to a pack of chicken thighs I just purchased. As I moved around my kitchen prepping my meal, tears rolled down my cheeks. I said out loud, “Boy, do I miss you Mom and I love you.” I kept crying while I cooked. Then, I started laughing as I heard her telling me that I didn’t season my green beans enough. I heard her laugh and ask if I had a piece of candy; she loved her hard candy.
While making gravy and slowly stirring it to get the right consistency, I remembered how much mom loved gravy and bread. “I love me some gravy, too”, I said. “Dad, here’s to you! Boneless skinless fried chicken thighs.” I envisioned his face with a smile as he noded.
As I fixed my plate and took my first bite of rice and gravy, I felt love envelope me. I felt and sense of peace. I smiled and gave thanks for “the kitchen” to continue to be a place to receive love it always freely gave.
