To this day I can recall the sounds and
smells as my mother diligently prepared the various meals for us from the menus
she planned throughout the week. Back in the 60’s the kitchen was primarily the
woman’s territory, with father’s going outside the home to bring home the wages
that supported the family. That is how it was in our family, viewed as the
“ideal” family. As I grew older, I was slowly assigned tasks to further prepare
me for my role as a woman. The successful family was often viewed as the
children playing outside without a care, or watching television on a brand-new
set. The wife cooked in her highly equipped kitchen, while cleaning house with
her powerful vacuum cleaner, all decked out in her finest. Various television series
like “Leave It to Beaver” portrayed women meeting their husband’s arrival home from
work wearing high heels, and pearls with every hair in place. Of course, if
there was the ultimate need for the woman to work, that was viewed as a
secondary necessity. I remember the excitement when one week my family awaited
the arrival of my mother’s new Frigidaire Flair Electric Range. My father had
totally updated the kitchen laying in new floor tiles among other things. A new
den and additional bedroom were also added. I remember the thrill of the
celebration once all was complete. I was allowed to have my birthday party
where all my friends were allowed to actually roller skate on this new floor
throughout the house. Mom had baked me a cake for my party on her new pull out
range. Her and the other mom’s gossiping as they sat cutting my cake into
portions. Each licking pink frosting off their fingers as some discussion about
the newest fashion trend was taking place. It brings back very fond memories of
the innocence of those times.
To say my mother was an ideal cook, like
my grandma, would be stretching it a bit. My dad’s mother, Grandma, even
entered contests. In her kitchen, I was given “secret” family recipes handed
down from generation to generation. On Sundays after church we would eat at my
grandparents. Grandma would have open her special journal preparing one of
those recipes. From the batter to fry up her chicken, to pound cake, it could
be found written in her fine handwriting. I remember once sitting on stool in
her kitchen as she stood with spit-fire in her eyes relating to my mother how
Ms. Brown had stole one of her jelly recipes. She was just a wee little thing
compared to my mother who came from Norwegian stock. In my grandmother’s world,
honor was a deeply ingrained as her deep southern roots.
Out of all the memories I have in my
mother’s kitchen, one stands out. My mother in her own way, didn’t have a lot
of confidence in her cooking skills. She used to fault her upbringing in a
Norwegian family and sustaining for the most part on smoked fish as the reason.
You never mentioned seafood toher, she would literally get sick at just the
word. But this one year she got brave, and became the homeroom mother for my third
grade class. This would require her to plan that year’s Christmas party with
the class partaking in the editable delicacy’s she would be providing. This was
a huge responsibility which required her to assign smaller tasks to some of the
other mothers. This was usually just providing drinks or napkins. Mom decided
on making a gingerbread house, and giving each child two good size gingerbread
men. So the day before the party the baking begun.
I remember the bowls, and the sweet
distinctive smell of spices as we whipped. Bags of candy everywhere. Gumdrops,
candy canes, mints, we had it. We mixed and rolled out the dough just thin
enough to cut out with the cookie cutters. Mom bought many trays so we would really
see the efforts of our work. But then tragedy set in and so did panic. We found
that after cooling, the gingerbread men were sticking to the trays. We would
end up breaking off an arm or leg out of half our attempts. Well, at first we
ate our ‘mistakes’ and slowly iced the remaining ones. The house we had just
cemented together totally collapsed, so I saw mom just about give up. You have
to envision this mess we were slowly creating to really understand just how bad
it was. Bowls of colorful icing, waxed paper, half broken cookies everywhere. I
knew mom was beginning to panic when dad came in to save the day. Little did I
know, he was a master cookie maker thanks to grandma. So after my brother was
called in to help eat away more rejects, dad first put on an apron and took
charge. First he somehow successfully managed to get the house to “cement”
together. He seemed to know just when and how to remove the cookies until we
had a large number piled on a plate. We sat , me and mom icing and putting
candies as dad began humming Christmas tune. So that year at the Christmas
party, my mother just beamed as my classmates and their mothers complimented
her. In that kitchen that night I really got to see firsthand the love my
parents shared. They were a team, each helping the other when needed. Every
year I make gingerbread house for my grandchildren and tell this true story. My
parents have passed many years ago, but this memory will always live on.
So looking back on the role the kitchen
played in our family growing up. Well it was immeasurable. The social interaction,
the various roles that now seem sadly gone. With the arrival of more fast food
chains, and machines such as dishwashers to do more of the ‘mothering’ chores,
something is lost. Many late nights after doing my homework, I would help my
mother in the kitchen. I would dry the dishes she had just washed. We would
talk, many times she told me stories handed down from my grandmother who had
been born in Norway. The windows open,
lacy curtains blowing in the breeze. The sound of bullfrogs and locusts
chirping as we lived in a world where our doors were unlocked at night. Now I
own grandmother’s journal and those same cookie cutters with pride. Some
memories you can never let fade away. For life for each of us is but a short
journey. Sharing and handing down what has come before enriches our life’s and
sets an example for those to come.
MARY L. PALERMO
COPYRIGHT MAY, 2016
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