
TODAY is the first anniversary of my mother’s death.
I think of my mother, who died at the age of 86, pretty much every day, but I thought of her more this week, not just because of this significant anniversary but because I have been cleaning out her kitchen. My father died in April and we are now packing up their home.
My mother’s kitchen was a workshop, a laboratory and a command center. She was an energetic, industrious and talented cook. From this kitchen — and the one in our childhood home — she prepared thousands of meals for her seven children, her husband, friends, and relatives. This was no secondary occupation, not simply the setting of a beautiful hobby, it was the center of life. It was reality.
We almost never ate in restaurants and hardly knew what take-out was when we were growing up. Despite the large demands on her kitchen time, my mother cooked for strangers too. She regularly made casseroles for a soup kitchen. Her kitchen was filled with her tools — hundreds of humble objects, many of them now battered and tired-looking, as if they belonged in a history exhibit where implements dug up by archaeologists are displayed to illustrate the course of human history. But they resonated with her personality and memories of the simple and indispensable chores they executed. From the baking sheets to the frying pans to the metal bowls and spatulas and knives, from the casserole dishes to the nut crackers to the potholders and candy thermometers, from the bean pot to the bread plates to the cooling racks to the stand mixer, they all seemed like friends I have known — and extensions of her. (more…)