Kitchen

The grand matriarch was the first to rise in the early morning. She made her way to the heart of the house, clad in her sleeping robes. Through the kitchen window, she could see that it was dark outside, typical for a stale dawning in the February morning.

The first meal served in the kitchen today was plain black coffee. She did not wait for the coffee cup to cool. Instead, she burned her tongue and hastily made an exit.

Most of the morning, the kitchen laid lifeless, lights dim, bells and whistles were dark. The kitchen could breathe here. No teakettles to distract it. It smelled of cleaning wipes and a faint whisper of early morning coffee.

Placid potted plants sat delicately on the windowsill, moving ever so slightly (plants tend stretch their aching backs, however, most of the time its too slow for humans to see. Plants are lazy things.)

The kitchen found itself to be a restful daze until the children came in. Armored with coloring books and tablets, they grabbed everything within arm’s reach. Cheerios, yogurt, strawberries, bananas. It seemed as if more food remained on their striped sleeves and rosy cheeks, than auctually in their mouths.

The boyish dog came jingling in with his dog collar, licking up scraps of leftover breakfast from the kids. His claws franticly scraped against the floor, creating a scratching sound that any dog owner knows all too well.

The dad sluggishly creeped into the kitchen and made a remark about how the dog was the best broom he knew.

And like a fine-tuned machine firing up its engines, the kitchen had awoken. The cabinets were torn open, coffee pots filled and refilled, glasses of milk were spilled. And while the family did not know it, the kitchen knew it was the most important part of the house. It was the very essence. It proudly bore the title, as no family room, no bathroom, no master suite could ever hold as much character as the kitchen held. Life happened here.

Lunch passed and as the day started to wither, the father curated caricature boards. Triangles of ripe tangy cheese met with sour grapes and slices of spiced sausage. This was his big moment. His grandiose performance. On the tray he set jams and jellies, chips and dips. Apple slices set to look like flowers for the kids. Bubbly dry champagne for the adults.

As he brought it to the table, the room heard applauds and sighs from the guests he was providing for.

The kitchen saw many parties, many smiles. Many laughs from the mother, who always tilted her head back in a dramatic outburst whenever the occasional joke came around. When the guests chinked their wine glasses together, they decided to toast to life. Parties are just celebrations of being alive, after all.

The next day would happen much like the last, the dawn of the matriarch with her heavy dosage of caffeine, and the lethargic father. The spastic dog and the roaring youth. Tongues burned, milk spilled, floors cleaned.

Water glasses left on the counter by the tenfold. ‘How is it possible for three children to drink this much water?’ The parents thought while cleaning.

It was days like these, where it felt good to take a deep breath. It felt good to take it all in. Good to take in the warmth one often felt when taking a batch of cookies out of the oven. Good to embrace the friends that danced in their fuzzy socks, singing along to the ever-eager radio.

What a character the radio was. Mouth wide open, the bearer of all news. Either loved or despised.

Everyone remembers where they were when the world shut down. Of course, the family remembers the kitchen.

How many times had it heard the phrase “this is serious now,” or “stay at home” or the god forsaken “these are unprecedented times?” The radio had once been diversified, and now every radio station in the entire milky way said the same three phrases.

Suddenly, no guests came.

The house had been humbled to walls. The kitchen, tile.

What was a house if it were not entertaining guests? The oven stopped cooking ribs and started taking on single-serve pizzas. The wine cabinet decided to focus its career on bottom shelf chardonnay.  

The tiles of the kitchen counters ran warm on the better nights, but on other nights, they were colder than rain. The parents often found themselves resting their head in their hands; receiving mail got more depressing as time inched forward.

There were a lot of talks that happened in the kitchen. The parents pushed the children out so they could speak in hushed tones about finances, health. Everyone knew someone who knew someone who died this year. People were always a degree of separation away from no one. Kevin Bacon had nothing on this year.

Creases were drawn by stress in the forehead of the mother. She jokingly decided to name them ‘politics,’ ‘parenting,’ and ‘pandemic,’ one day while reading news at the kitchen table. She thought this was a hilarious joke and decided to repeat it whenever she called her friends.

For a while, things were hushed. It felt as if the family were walking on a tightrope while balancing a stack of fine china on their noses. Whether the family wanted to hear it or not, stories snuck in like toxic gas through the cracks of the door. Stories of a family of five becoming a family of one. Eating in a kitchen alone.

There were horror stories of the hospitals. The overflow of cadavers. People watching their grandparents pass on in a plastic bag, much like they were a saran-wrapped dish in the freezer.

The grotesque, dispiriting, and gory stories seeped into the kitchen, and some days, it was hard to eat. However, they were still a family of five. They still sat at a table. They were the lucky ones.

What a mental conundrum they were in. Should they be happy or sad? Maybe its non-binary. There’s more than happy or sad. They were blessed but dispirited. Does that not mean they are spoiled like milk? Maybe, maybe not.

There were still moments. The youngest tried his first olive not too long ago. The verdict was disapproval.

The oldest found herself slow dancing with her boyfriend to slow songs that played on the kitchen radio. They would have a kitchen of their own someday and treat it fairly similar.

They watched the plants grow, and their long leaves grasp onto the blinds. Seeing the ever-steady plants finally reach towards the sun was a natural relaxant for the heart.

The dog had never been happier in his life, never had he gotten this many head pats and belly scratches.

Moments hid themselves between the passage of time. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we all just stopped counting? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we stopped tallying the hours and days, if we stopped worrying about our “two o’clock online meeting,” or our “bedtime by seven?” Dinner would happen when it happened, we would eat when we were hungry.

A hundred days passed since the world shut down. Not a fun anniversary.

Then 200.

Then 300.

Time still kept going. No matter how many people passed, no matter the condition of this year, time was still a ticking clock. The amount oatmeal breakfasts were numbered. How much longer would it be until the children’s home would become just a childhood home? How much longer before the bread cabinets became medicine cabinets?

Every night gone by was another night where there wasn’t a huge family feast, where there wasn’t a celebration of life. Every day seemed like another missed opportunity.

How much longer would it be until the father wouldn’t be cooking for a fleet anymore? Soon he would start cooking for two. Then for one. It was years from now, but you only realize you’re in the dark when the only light has been taken away.

What was the point of it all? The father had already known that everyone had an expiration date. This year had just seemed to have waisted everyone’s time. Less time on the shelf now. What use did he have, if not to cook? What was he if he wasn’t David, working for a Goliath of a crew?

He never even used spice anymore. He didn’t season bacon. He left his eggs plain. When it was time for snacks, he handed the children plain string cheese. The kitchen watched as he looked through the cabinets, searching for something fun. Anything. However, most days he settled for cereal.

Most days, constant conversation ran through the kitchen, if not through the family members, it was through the ever-bumbling radio. However, one day the mother got so sick of hearing the phrase “stay at home” that she just turned it off. And a year later, it remained the same. Radio, quiet. Kitchen, dormant.

An entire year had passed now. But it didn’t exactly pass. It dragged on, clenching its claws into the sidewalk in an effort to milk this year for all of its worth. However, at the same time, it seemed to run away from the family. The moments seemed to swirl together and wash themselves through the drain, an exponential process with no going back.

Well, nothing felt right. Nothing might ever feel right again.

Except, the mother was always the first to rise.

The children followed.

Then the dog.

And the father.

And something was new today. Today the father made omelets. The mother turned on the radio. For the first time in a long time.

And for the first time in a long time a yellow vibrancy seeped through the windows, electrifying every corner of the room with a warm, shining light.

Were they happy or sad? Was it possible to feel neither, or both?

The family felt neither. They simply felt change.

However, today the father put salt on his eggs, today the mother burnt her tongue, the kids crashed into the floor and broke things, so while the world changed around them, they remained the same.

A matriarch, the youth, a dog, a sluggish chef, and a kitchen. Not much could change that.