My Kitchen

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If we are going to get to know each other, you should probably get a look at my kitchen. I would say it’s where the magic happens, but that’s debatable. I’m still very much learning my way around the place.   

I have this lofty notion about my kitchen, a farfetched fantasy that should probably find its way to the same graveyard that houses the dreams of women who think June Cleaver is a practical role model. Honestly, I think I’ve read too many stories about French people. My kitchen notions are cut from the same kind of impractical cloth that allows some to believe it’s possible to whip up a five-course meal with nary a bead of sweat nor stain on the apron.

 

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I fashion a culinary legacy in my head made of flour dusted hands and bubbling pots of soup. I imagine pate brisee made with ease and off-the-cuff meals conjured by a sweeping glance to the pantry.  I long for the kind of presence in the kitchen that warrants a memorial kickback whenever a certain scent saunters through a room. What will be my signature scent? Bacon grease? Baked goods? 

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One of my life’s goals includes being a perennial figure in the kitchen, a reliable captain of the stove.

Am I there yet? Hardly. 

But, a girl can dream and cook like hell.

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My kitchens have always been small, my tools adequate (thanks to my mother) and I’ve learned that beautiful things can often have meager beginnings.  There is no deep sink or Viking range but it is enough. I spend alot of time here and I’m grateful that this kitchen is large enough for a table and two chairs. Small, but enough. 

Every weekend, fresh produce litters the countertop and there is hardly a time when the counters are free and clear. These pictures represent the ONE time I excised the daily debris for a few snaps.  As I type this, there is a Kitchen Aid mixer atop the counter, a bowl of chocolate chip cookie dough from said mixer (which I made at 10 p.m. last night) coming to temp and a cooling rack ready to host fresh cookies when they come out of the oven later today. There are four cucumbers which came off the vine this morning and a stack of clean, hand washed dishes ready to be put away until they are used again, most likely tomorrow.

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For now, not many people pass through this kitchen save my food-obsessed pup who loves to wedge herself between me and the counter waiting for the inevitable scrap to fall to the floor. And, of course, the Mister. I’m using this time of virtual solitude to practice, practice, practice so that when my house is filled with people and conversation, I will have something to offer that expresses the love I have built up over the years in my tiny kitchens.