We never ate in the kitchen.
‘People don’t eat in the kitchen’,
said Father.
‘They eat in the dining room. One cooks in a kitchen’.
Our kitchen was small, compact, one door leading to the dining room, one to the front entrance. ‘So that your mother doesn’t have so far to walk when the doorbell rings’, said Father. There was an exit door to the back yard through which to tumble children and the dog when they were not required for eating, bathing or sleeping.
There was a landscape window above the sink. ‘So you can see into the garden as you peel the potatoes’, Father and visitors commented ‘Isn’t that lovely?’
From the window, one, in fact, could see into the garden, including the outside toilet, its tiled roof rather than galvanized iron, being a great source of pride for my mother.
To the right of the sink was the Kookaburra gas stove, a hob and oven combination, green and cream. It stood squat legged on waist high built-in cupboards in which were stored the saucepans. ‘So handy for you’, said Father and the next roster of visitors. ‘And a hood over the stove to exhaust the fumes. No more cooking smells’, Father explained to us.
At the opposite side of the room was a tiny wooden table and a tall backless stool. ‘You can sit here while you are waiting for the meal to cook’, said Father. ‘See how the stool slips under the table when not in use and gives you room’.
The pantry was tall, to the ceiling, a long cupboard topped by two smaller ones. ‘These small ones are handy’, said Father, ‘for the preserves’. ‘Yes,’ agreed the visitors, ‘Keeps them out of the way until you need them’.
There were two wooden kitchen chairs, too big for the four siblings who ate their Saturday lunch around the table. Mother’s stool was very comfortable and the battle for it constant, the crush around the table, constant, as the children continued to outgrow it.
Father had decreed that this was Mother’s kitchen, Mother’s stool, Mother’s domain and admonished us severely. ‘Remember, it is never wise to upset the cook.’
‘They eat in the dining room. One cooks in a kitchen’.
Our kitchen was small, compact, one door leading to the dining room, one to the front entrance. ‘So that your mother doesn’t have so far to walk when the doorbell rings’, said Father. There was an exit door to the back yard through which to tumble children and the dog when they were not required for eating, bathing or sleeping.
There was a landscape window above the sink. ‘So you can see into the garden as you peel the potatoes’, Father and visitors commented ‘Isn’t that lovely?’
From the window, one, in fact, could see into the garden, including the outside toilet, its tiled roof rather than galvanized iron, being a great source of pride for my mother.
To the right of the sink was the Kookaburra gas stove, a hob and oven combination, green and cream. It stood squat legged on waist high built-in cupboards in which were stored the saucepans. ‘So handy for you’, said Father and the next roster of visitors. ‘And a hood over the stove to exhaust the fumes. No more cooking smells’, Father explained to us.
At the opposite side of the room was a tiny wooden table and a tall backless stool. ‘You can sit here while you are waiting for the meal to cook’, said Father. ‘See how the stool slips under the table when not in use and gives you room’.
The pantry was tall, to the ceiling, a long cupboard topped by two smaller ones. ‘These small ones are handy’, said Father, ‘for the preserves’. ‘Yes,’ agreed the visitors, ‘Keeps them out of the way until you need them’.
There were two wooden kitchen chairs, too big for the four siblings who ate their Saturday lunch around the table. Mother’s stool was very comfortable and the battle for it constant, the crush around the table, constant, as the children continued to outgrow it.
Father had decreed that this was Mother’s kitchen, Mother’s stool, Mother’s domain and admonished us severely. ‘Remember, it is never wise to upset the cook.’
And it was ever hers.
Because of its size, it could accommodate one cook only. Children never
under her feet, never wanting
to be constrained by it. The stool was tall but still too
small for Father and he never sat on it.
She spent her quiet time perched on her stool at the table, reading her book, her legs twisted as anchor around the legs of the stool, while the meal simmered on the stove, Father, in another place, busy making decisions and the children feral in the neighbourhood somewhere. They’d all be back by dark, falling on to the dining room chairs, clamouring to be fed. Meanwhile, she had a room of her own and was content.
www.antiquehomestyle.com
She spent her quiet time perched on her stool at the table, reading her book, her legs twisted as anchor around the legs of the stool, while the meal simmered on the stove, Father, in another place, busy making decisions and the children feral in the neighbourhood somewhere. They’d all be back by dark, falling on to the dining room chairs, clamouring to be fed. Meanwhile, she had a room of her own and was content.
www.antiquehomestyle.com
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