“What with still hours of calm delight thy songs and image blend. I cannot chose but think thou wert an old familiar friend.” —Annabel Abbs
The kitchen was a beautiful spacious room with sunlight filtering through the tall windows facing east. So Eliza could see the morning sun as it rose flooding her kitchen with light and warmth. Gossamer curtains framed the windows. She could see the backyard gardens and plan how to add more rose bushes, more lily of the valley, more of every hue and color.
She had chosen this home on a quiet cul-de-sac because of its room sizes and location and gardens and over-all neighborhood. The home did not disappoint in the decades she lived there.
Her friends through the years would sit at the oblong wood table with the white wooden chairs and enjoy all the delicious meals she prepared with loving intention. The room had its own fireplace and on the mantle would pose the seasonal decorations.
Eliza used her best damask linens, Achilles crystal, best silverware and linen napkins to serve her guests. Fresh flowers always adorned the table. Her favorite room was her kitchen filled with copper pots, souffle ceramic bowls, utencils of every description, whisks of every size, and contentments.
Yes, this room brought contentments and memories.
She smiled as she remembered Bill’s helping to serve the lasagna. Or Don holding the plate of pork chops covered in lemon slices and a ketchup compote. Eliza had been host to the four French leaders as they visited the states with their French students. Many family dinners were served in her kitchen. As many family members passed on, the memories remained.
She would serve her homemade cinnamon breads or dinner rolls and put butter in the molds to resemble leaves or flowers in their shape. Every detail mattered.
Her collection of cookbooks gave her constant inspiration to try a new recipe. She would make peach cobbler when peaches were in season, or pumpkin bread when October came again. She baked over a dozen different Christmas cookies and mailed cookie boxes all over the States to loved ones. She would make her fruitcakes and mail them.
There was something sublime about her kitchen. Something mystical. Sometimes whimsical. Sometimes a bit of a mess as the custards were just coming out of the oven as the fruit tarts would go in. Egg shells and bits of pastry along with used bowls and lemon peels would sit side by side on the counter as the new recipes were tried.
With the seasons changing, her collection of aprons would rotate as would the kitchen towels and oven mitts. The kitchen sounds were part of the daily rhythm as the chop, chop, of the knife on the wooden board assured her that she was in the place of her heart’s content…her kitchen with its tiny apple wallpaper she had hung herself, with the new flooring she had laid, with the newly-painted walls.
Now the kitchen is quiet because the day is ending and Eliza turns off the lights. She has already decided tomorrow’s menu of turkey and dressing. This is the week of Thanksgiving so there is much to do to be ready for her guests.
“Good Night, Kitchen”, she says to the now quiet space that she so loves.