Kitchentime

And the sweet gift of feeding my loved ones

The first time I ever saw our home was in a grainy, wobbly video my mom took while walking through it. I was sitting at my desk in the Governor’s office, my two weeks already turned in and awkwardly being carried out, and my parents had met over at this vacant, old house on their way back to lunch. It all happened so quickly…as life in a small town so often does. Dad heard about the house that morning and by lunchtime, they had a time scheduled to see it that day. The house was filled with stale stacks of books, dusty cardboard boxes, remnants of an estate sale a while back, a life once lived. Because my family has always believed in the superiority of old homes, my parents wandered through that house with hope, ideas, excitement. And when Mom turned the corner into the kitchen, and I saw the window above the sink, I knew the house was already mine.

My kitchen in this tiny little cottage we won’t fit in once more babies are given to us is my dream of all dream kitchens…or at least, my dream for now. Little corners of cookbooks and tiny lamps, granite countertops, dark oak and creamy cabinets, a candle on the stove. I think I’ll be replicating it in any home I live in after this one. I love this room in every light: the morning lamplight, sunshine-filled around mid-afternoon, shadows at dinnertime, candle glow just in time for my nightly ice cream. I love cleaning my kitchen, the comforting knowledge that no matter how dirty it gets, by bedtime, it will be restored to its prettiest state…oh, the precious power of washcloths and Mrs. Meyers spray and Clorox wipes. I love making dinner, pans of brownies, tupperwares filled to the brim with chicken salad for lunch, cans of formula turned into warm bottles of milk, bubbly comfort foods, something marinated for Price to grill. I love my kitchen.

Since Kit was born, my kitchen has become somewhat of a solace for the end of my days, too. On Sunday nights, I plan my grocery run for the next morning. Kit and I go on Monday mornings, as early as we can muster in order to avoid the heat (unsuccessfully). When she was first born, all I could manage was an online pick-up order, but now that she enjoys an outing, tucked away in the carrier on my chest, I enjoy an outing, too. A reason to leave the house! To get dressed and listen to Faith Hill in the car.

When we get home, I clean out the fridge, the pantry, replacing old baking soda, restocking my granola bars, my coffee, my ginger ales. And then I’m ready for a week of feeding my sweet people.

Just as time has gone on, we’ve fallen into a routine of talking when Price gets home, then he gives Kit her bottle and plays with her while I make us dinner (which is eaten on TV trays while enjoying Dory’s Reef Cam with the girls). And while I love, absolutely love, my slow, quiet days at home with baby girl, I have come to love, absolutely love, when it’s time to make dinner by myself. Tying my apron around my waist, reheating my coffee, playing the Toast loud enough for Price to hear (not at his request). And just a room over, I can hear the soft bells of Kit’s stuffed jellyfish, her giggles, Price cooing at her while they sit face to face. At my feet is my Annie Boo, my “sous” (chef) while making supper-time. I used to call for Price to come get her, so she didn’t drool on my hardwoods, watching me chop vegetables. But these days, I catch myself before asking her to leave, instead letting her have tiny pieces of red pepper, rotisserie chicken, letting her lick the plates in the dishwasher and calling after her “Thank you, sous!” when I close the machine.

Nobody told me how tender life would become once having a baby, even how Annie waits for green bean scraps from the can.

Sometimes, when dinnertime is close and I’m getting a head start on scrubbing the dishes, Price will appear in the doorway, a sleepy little girl in his arms, just “making their rounds.”

When I make dinner, I find myself so often thinking about my mom’s kitchen, our childhood menu. There are a few things she makes that I really just can’t even try to replicate: her poppy seed chicken, oatmeal carmelites, and her world famous chocolate chip cookies (which she says is just the recipe on the back of the chocolate chip package, but everyone who has tried knows better.) Right now, I’m in a season of scrolling Pinterest for recipes every week, scribbling them down when I get a good response from Price – my favorite being “this could be served in a restaurant!” I’m building my repertoire for Kit’s childhood, wondering which dinners she’ll request again, which ones she’ll get tired of.

Two weekends ago, we enjoyed a rare Saturday completely and utterly at home. Usually in the summertime, Price is gone golfing in backyard tournaments on the weekends, so I planned as fancy of a supper as I could, finished off with a homemade chocolate cake my mom had made us all a month or two ago (and I hadn’t stopped thinking about since). My dinner was such an utter flop, it makes me sick to remember. All I’ll say is this: one pan full of chocolate batter sans salt and oil, a mixing bowl of homemade icing with clumps of flour, and about 95% of a rubber $31 pot roast sat in the trash can by eight o’clock that night. So my kitchen is definitely in a trial and error.

And yes, you read that right. A piece of meat worth two cans of formula in the trash. Pitiful.

And yes, I did remake the cake, and it was delicious. However, I didn’t attempt the icing again; instead sending Price to the grocery store for store bought icing which was a mistake I will never, ever make again. I could not believe how much it tasted like the slick cardboard it came in.

But regardless of complete disaster or rave review, at the end of the night, my kitchen is cleaned, my $3 Walmart candle is lit, and my tiny family is heading out to the best part of Kit’s first summertime: nights on the porch. We sit in our rockers, passing a sticky and squirmy baby back and forth, Annie nestled on her perch, just happy to be included. The past week or so, Price has been taking Kit down to the other end of the porch to swing on the one he bought in honor of our first anniversary, the “first thing we added to this house” he reminded me a few days ago. We sit mostly in silence, watching how the setting sun hits the tops of trees and roofs, dances in the tall crepe myrtles. Enjoying the ceiling fan and our new Theracell that really does somewhat combat those dreadful mosquitoes. Just full from supper, thinking about how nice a shower will feel, how nice these nights will be when September brings a little cooler of a breeze, those fudgsicles waiting for us in the freezer. Thinking about how right here and right now, I’m so thankful.  

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Some recipes I’ve saved for Kit’s childhood these past few weeks, including the cake that ended up in the trash, shared here for you!

Cashew chicken — Throughout my entire pregnancy and five months later, I’ve been craving Cheesecake Factory’s rendition of this dish. And since I live in a state with no restaurant near…this had to do, and it was wonderful.

Salt & Lavender's Cheesy Broccoli Orzo

Best chocolate sheet cake in the world

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And some little cozy, homey little kitchen finds for you to peruse with your coffee. Have a wonderful weekend my sweet friends!