Growing up, my favorite room of any home was the kitchen. It was big and bright and shiny. Just made you want to step in the picture, sit down at the counter over a cup of coffee and 'shoot the shit' as my mom use to say.
My love for the kitchen started when I was a child. That is the first place we headed after school every day. Me and my sister would grab a snack and sit at the counter, kicking our shoes to the floor, laughing and giggling over girlish secrets. Mom would be at the sink doing dishes, or pealing potatoes, or drinking some coffee. She'd ask us questions and make us feel important with her genuine interest in our day.
And I wasn't the only one that loved my mother's kitchen. Inevitibly at a party, family gathering or social event in our home, everyone would end up in the kitchen... snacking, drinking, laughing and sharing. That room was always warm and inviting and full of the smells of food and coffee and sweetness.
Some of my favorite stories my mother ever shared with us was while she cooked dinner and we sat at the counter listening to her and asking questions. I remember my one main chore was to unload the dishwasher everyday... I did the dishes and my sister did the silverware (she was 5 years younger than I).
That was me and my mom's time to chat. Many a confession was made in that kitchen. She found my first hickey on my neck at 15, when I was leaning in the sink washing my hair. Oops. Ha. And that's usually where the report card was presented for review and usually praise, but sometimes a stern lecture.
It's where I told my mom I lost my virginity and where I smeared mayonaise on my sister one day as a joke and we had a full on fight with the whole jar (not recommended... mayo smells really gross when it makes contact with skin). It's where I read my acceptance letter to college, introduced my parents to my future husband and also where he asked them for their blessing to marry me. I learned to cook under the watchful gaze of my mother. It's where I told my mom she was going to be a grandmother. And where I hugged my mom and sisters right after we found out their father (the man who raised me) died.
Candles have been blown out, tears have been shed and wiped, songs have been sang, kisses and hugs have been shared and secrets have been told... all sitting in the kitchen.
It's no wonder it's my favorite room of the house.
