The Kitchen

The kitchen was
Where I talked to mom,
The kitchen was
Where we were all together,
The kitchen was
Where we played table games,
The kitchen was
The place to sit and stare,
The kitchen was
Full – filled – with life.

Please use the open space below to share your first 50 words on the topic “the kitchen.”

Author: Virginia DeBolt

Writer and teacher who writes blogs about web education, writing practice, and pop culture.

2 thoughts on “The Kitchen”

  1. Our Michigan house was designed by my parents, and its rectangle kitchen held two paralleled counter tops with the stove on one side and the sink in the other. The fridge stood adjacent to the stove side, Each counter top began at the doorway to the bedroom hall, but the sink’s counter side stopped short, allowing passage into the breakfast room. Behind the sink was more counter, making its section an island with a rounded end with lower shelves to match the curve. An overhead cupboard was to the left of the sink and the rest of the island opened into the breakfast room. In that sweet room lived a yellow linoleum covered table that matched the floor, seven chairs, and a small telephone desk beside the door that led to the back porch. If you sat on the north side of the table, you could see the backyard out the divided window panes. If you sat on the south side, you saw the kitchen’s floor plan of the island sink, stove, refrigerator.and door to the hallway. We took breakfast and lunch there, and on that island my father laid me flat, to stitch a cut over my eye, when I fell headlong on the back porch steps one rainy day in 1955. I still have the scar from that cut on my body and the even deeper imprint of our yellow kitchen in my mind.

  2. The kitchen . It was a separate building . It still beats me , as to why was this so ? A small passageway connected it to the rest of the house . This passageway was unroofed , originally . So , during blazing summers , you could be roasted to a crisp by the fiery sun , or drenched to the skin during the relentless monsoons , on your way to and from the kitchen .
    Later my grandfather built a roof over it , so it became a hideaway , a passage to culinary delights , and a clean cricket pitch . The cricket pitch ended the day my smashing delivery broke one of my grandmother’s enormous water pitchers .
    There were raised platforms , where one could sit and eat , discuss politics or peel and chop cucumbers.
    They were strategically placed . One could flee at the sound of my grandfather’s walking stick on the cement .
    The kitchen floor was smooth , cool , cement . It was mopped countless times through the day . We sat around the open fire , and ate , laughed , joked and became adults .

    My sister , fresh from her hostel , reed thin , would be plied with mounds of soft, steaming, white rice . The moment my mother turned her back , she quickly distributed her rice amongst us younger siblings . We were three of us . Three fistfuls , and her rice mound would disappear , by the time Maa came back with dal or curry . Surprised , more rice would be piled onto her plate , and we all would be in stitches , rolling on the floor .

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