A Starting Point

Growing up the kitchen was the center of our family. Everything revolved around food. We might not have had much, but the one thing we had in plenty was food. The kitchen was the place where our family lived. Our family started and ended the day at the kitchen table which resided in the kitchen. From a very early age, I have helped my mother in the kitchen. When I was three, I helped her by getting the cheese out of the refrigerator or getting her a stirring spoon. The older I got the more involved I was in the cooking process. I was never responsible for cooking meals, but I understood what it meant to cook in our household. In our house, cooking equals love.

My father worked a job that required him to get up at 4:00 a.m. and go to work. My mother, out of love for my father, woke up and cooked him breakfast. By breakfast, I mean homemade biscuits, gravy, bacon and eggs at 3:30 a.m. My mother carried a full-time job and was raising two children at the time, but somehow managed to stay a pretty cool and carefree mom. Every morning we had breakfast, our lunches were made for school and every day at 5:30, dinner was on the table. Her food was made with love. As I grew up, food became even more crucial. With busy schedules and being highly involved, we had little time together. Dinner at the table was always a priority. Even during these busy times, my mother never switched her homemade from scratch cooking for a bag of food thrown into a skillet. Little did I know how much this would mean to me.

Any holiday gathering rather it be for four or 40, food was always the center of our meetings. Cooking was something that the women in the household did to bond. It never failed that at any given time during the holiday’s there would be three or four women in the kitchen, talking and getting to know one another.

Soon, the kitchen began to be my safe place. It is the place that I go and hide. It is my home away from home. It is the place I find my solitude after a long day. It is a never-ending place of comfort. Often in new places or even at friend’s houses, I always wind up in the kitchen. The kitchen is the place I go when I am uncomfortable. I know that at the end of every day my kitchen is my safe place and what I produce from that kitchen is love. Love that I cannot express in any other way; be it love for my family, friends or even strangers. My kitchen is the only place where I can express things I cannot say.

The whole reasoning behind this blog is that maybe, just maybe, the food I cook and the feelings and emotions behind my meals transcend to someone else and that the love for a community and a feeling of belonging goes well past my kitchen and into the kitchen of others. Today I am opening up my safe haven to others in hopes that people realize just how important a kitchen is to their family and friends.