a time to reap, a time to sow… a time to Martha up your kitchen like a bitch.

This is the kitchen I remember growing up with since I was about ten years old. No, we generally didn’t usually have a dictionary stand and tome poised at our elbows as we cooked. I don’t know what that’s all about in this month-old photo (said dictionary is serving under my 2-year old’s ass as a booster seat for meals this weekend). The shelf above the sink holding flour crockery and measuring cups was a beautiful oak slab routed by my mother to hold serving plates. It was also, at the end of its tenure, covered with an eighth inch of rugged, rubbery kitchen grease / grit buildup. As was the rest of the kitchen.

This is my parents new kitchen, remodeled entirely of their own effort and with fundage courtesy of my Grandmother’s corpse, and complete with double seamless composite sink, self-closing dual-tiered silverware drawer, and so many cupboards I could lose one of my children easily (children housed by cupboards not shown here). Note coffered ceiling and general snootiness. It’s a beautiful kitchen and a joy to cook and eat in. They should be proud of themselves. More evidence:

Some kitchens have shit like this for purely decorative function, purchased at Pier One or Costco (I can’t type either of those proper nouns without a gag reflex). My mother actually received this garlic braid as a gift from a friend who grew it in her garden and braided it herself and yes, my mom cooks with it. My mom also has, perched above her stove, herbs she grew, dried and bottled in little green glasses she painted the names of the herbs on:

When my husband, wannabe herb-grower extraordinaire, sees this picture, he may in fact be spurred into a vicious Master Plan to out-herb my mom. Only time will tell.

Some things do not upgrade into the new “classy” vision my ‘rents digs afford. Case in point:

Last night I promised myself (and my family) I would no longer say disrespectful things about my parent’s dog. The truth is, he is a good dog. But he is also (and this is one of the worst things a dog can be) a yapper. Anyway, my kids love him (Nels took him on a walk this afternoon) and he fills that hole in my parents’ hearts that apparently only a floor-pissing, constantly shaking tiny canine-ish lifeform can fill.

(My father, sitting on his ass in his leather easy chair, just yelled out, “It’s past four o’clock!”, apparently the signal for my mom to open up and pour his first glass of wine).

Tonight: spaghetti and meatballs, roasted squash, and stuffed zucchini. For now: round up my children, who are currently sleeping off a morning of indulgence and ice cream.

Comments are closed.