For twenty-nine years, I needed a large kitchen where I prepared meals for my large family.
Times change, families change, kitchens change.
A three -course meal, chosen from the four food groups, changes to a can of soup, a toasted bagel and a few ginger snaps: ample, filling, and enough to keep the hungries away until the next sitting.
Tiny kitchens entice meal preparation. A few steps from the cupboard to the sink, to the stove, and the meal is done. A few swipes of a cloth, and the kitchen sparkles. I walked a mile preparing a meal in my large kitchen, except on holidays when that distance doubled. No one knew where things were in a large kitchen. No one wanted to learn.
In a tiny kitchen, everything is at hand, including the cook. When my sons and daughters and their families come to visit, they brush by me in my tiny kitchen, kiss me on the cheek or hug me in the crush of this cozy little space that makes my house a home.
My tiny kitchen is carefully cluttered with remembrances from my larger kitchen. Old tins collected from dusty shelves in far-away antique shops; a set of 12 knives, sold to me by a fast talking salesman at the county fair, are guaranteed never to go dull; a basket given to me by my eldest son Carl, Christmas, 1989.
Christmas 1989 was not so great, except for the basket, which was filled with spicy treasures from home in the southwest and came 2500 miles, cradled on his lap aboard flight #427. Every time I use it, it reminds me of the precious times I cradled him on my lap. Its shape is designed to hold lots of goodies made in my tiny kitchen, so I use it often. A kitchen towel placed inside it makes a nest for warm sweet rolls that stay that way for an entire meal.
I have a picture of my brood, framed in a magnet on my apartment-sized refrigerator. I keep it in that prominent place so I can see them, all of them, every day. Every day, I am in my tiny kitchen. Every day, I need to see them. Every day.
When my granddaughter Candice was in first grade, she drew a picture of a penguin on black and white paper and gave it to me. It’s adorable and I love it so much, it’s been hanging on my refrigerator door since then. Another masterpiece there is a drawing of an imaginary wonder, done by my grandson Matthew who was one and a half years old at the time. He proudly handed it to me and said, “Frig, Gram.” I knew exactly what he meant and where he wanted his artwork displayed.
Tiny pictures of my dear Mother and Father grace a shelf above the kitchen window. I placed them close to each other as I am certain they are close to each other, somewhere far beyond my tiny kitchen.
My tiny kitchen serves me well. I know others like me who live in tiny houses crowded with memories still fresh, and sometimes painful, of larger kitchens. Tiny kitchens can produce the same delights and aromas, and are ever so much more wonderfully crowded when families gather.
Tiny kitchens provide.