Mama's Kitchen

The short scene on the movie she had been watching inexplicably and instantly lifted her depressive mood. It took her a few minutes to process how the image of the farmhouse kitchen had snapped her out of the dark feeling she'd carried all day and propelled her into a sense of purpose. The kitchen was the view in the background of the scene in which the main character in the foreground was sitting in a chair in an adjacent room watching a television program. The maple branches outside the curtained window in the scene casted moving shadows across the linoleum floor in such a way that had stopped her. Later, she considered that this simple movement was what had piqued her curiosity and catapulted her into action. Holidays are hard and they had been since her mother had passed. This Christmas was different, though. It was considerably lighter, and the family members who were present had stirred up some familiar traditions. Stockings on the fireplace, lamb in the crock pot, advent calendars, and other small details had framed the holidays for as long as she could remember. This year she had not had to make an effort to be cheerful, though. Conversations and meals naturally centered around old stories and holiday activities. It had been years since she had simply fallen into a Christmas spirit. Being with family is always taxing, but when she looked closely at it she had to admit that it was a definite improvement upon the past few years in which she was mostly alone, or only with her son. She had spent winter solstice with friends a couple of years ago when he was away and she remembered drinking wine until she was crying and passed out; alone, of course. Last year was the worst Christmas. Her son disappeared for months without word and she had been barely held together by the grace of friends. If she was honest, Christmas had become a sorrowful time of year, despite her efforts to be cheerful. Maybe this holiday season was a whole lot better because, in defiance of her gloomy mood, she suddenly felt grateful for so many things. Perhaps the kitchen in the movie, with its polished percolator coffee pot, its empty dish rack, cookie jar, cleared countertops, block of knives, and old linoleum floor, had reminded her that things could be far worse. The scene had brought to mind her mother's kitchen. She hadn't grown up in that kitchen, but her son had. And to say she hadn't grown up there was not a fair statement. Aren't we, after all, growing up alongside our children?

Her mother kept her small house always dark because she preferred the heavy embroidered draperies drawn. Closed drapes kept things cool in summer and warm in winter, her mother would say. Plus, she didn't like being on display for passers by. Her mom's kitchen was different than the rest of the house. It shone in a diffused light with its simple white curtain at the small back door. It was a quiet and clean kitchen, like the one in the movie; the floors swept and mopped; the trash taken out. She loved the sound and smell of the percolator pot that her mother would put on to boil whenever she would visit. They had coffee together always; coffee was their thing. They would sit at the small table in her kitchen and talk about her work, her son, her childhood, her struggles, or her school curriculum. In fact, her mother often just listened while she talked. Over the years, she came to realize that no one listens so attentively as one's own mother. A mother makes a family. Now she had to try hard to remember what her mother had said about things that troubled her life, now that she didn't have her advisement. There were some years, walking into that small red house, that she felt a bittersweetness well up in her chest. She realized now that it was a feeling she would give anything to experience once again - the feel of Mama's kitchen. She looked around at her own small apartment. She hadn't even picked up the wads of gift wrapping left over from Christmas gift exchange. A pile of dishes filed both sides of the sink, the carpet was speckled with cracker crumbs and various other shreds of holiday cheer, and the sticky mimosa glasses were scattered from side table to window ledge. Her increasing melancholy of the day had kept her from cleaning up last night, or even today. Today had been a movie marathon day; mostly of which she had dozed through. But now she was alert, suddenly, and felt like herself. She paused the movie, sat up on the couch, and looked around the place. What could she do to keep the momentum going? She could clean and tidy things. She began to gather all the wrapping paper, unused gift boxes, tissue paper, scissors, and tape, and placed them in the second drawer of the credenza. She fluffed the comforter on her sleigh bed, and placed all the throw pillows and bed pillows on the top, finishing it off with the creamy crocheted tablecloth her mother had found in a thrift store and given to her after removing the wine stains through whatever sorcery she used to do such things. Then she pulled out the vacuum and ran it across the living room rug. She draped the throws over the back of the couch and chair, and fluffed the couch pillows. Then pulled her clothes from the exercise bike and folded them away, lit an incense stick, and set in on the dirty dishes, acutely aware of the small beige curtain above the sink that ruffled with the breeze coming in through the window well.

Hers was a small apartment, so it didn't take long to make it look as peaceful and quiet as the dark kitchen in the movie. It was maybe 25 minutes before the apartment looked tidy. She poured herself a cup of tea, pulled the drapes closed, turned off the kitchen light, and turned on the Christmas lights. Now she was like the woman in the movie. Not happy, but somehow ok. More pensive than sad. She looked around at all she'd done. Life goes on, Mama would say. She sat back down on the couch, picked up the remote, and hit "play". The woman on the screen turned off the television and opened up a book. The character smiled in reverie at the dedication on the first page of the book. There is always something to be grateful for.