The Human Condition Begins in the Kitchen

“Your First Kitchen” – (Writing exercise #3 by Robin Helmly from the book “Now Write”) 

My first kitchen was a traditional L shaped kitchen with an old cream colored linoleum floor that connected the dining room to the living room. The light was long and florescent with a switch at either end that illuminated the dark wood paneled cupboards.

There was one window above the sink facing the backyard, where you could stand and see the rose bushes along the back fence and the metal jungle gym with swings and monkey bars that stood tall in the bright green grass. It would bring me a sense of comfort to see my mom at the kitchen window as I swung my grimy little hands from one monkey bar to another, causing blisters on the underside of my hands or when I’d jump off the swing a little too high, knowing she was just on the other side of that window.

To the left of the sink hung an old phone attached to the wall with a cord long enough to reach all the way to the opposite end of the kitchen. It hung right next to the sliding glass door opening into the back yard. Sometimes for privacy I would take the phone outside and close the cord in the glass door. It would leave a black grease smudge on the cream colored phone cord every time.

The counter under the phone held our junk drawer full of pens, paper, scissors, some old rubber bands and random things that had no other place to be stored. The countertop was piled with phone books and coupons needing to be cut out.

That’s where the cutting board pulled out of the counter; I would stand there and chop vegetables for my mom in the evening, overlooking the living room TV where she watched Oprah and Jeopardy.

The big white frig stood in the middle of the kitchen with the glass cookie jar sitting on top. There were always cookies in it; sometimes homemade, sometimes cheap store bought cookies my mom found on sale or had a coupon for.  The lid had a particular squeak and squeal to it when you opened it, never really letting anyone sneak cookies. Although at one point I had become pretty good at maneuvering the jar just right and coughing at just the right moment to cover the sound to the lid being pulled off. Of course, I could never get the lid back on without giving myself away.

There was a comfort and peace the kitchen seemed to bring. I don’t know if it was because of all rooms, it was the only one in which everything had a place to belong and you knew exactly where everything was all the time. Maybe it was the process of baking cookies or watching a home cooked meal being prepared. Maybe it signified a common ground, the source of why we gathered together as a family.

Thirty two years away from that kitchen, I’m sitting in my own kitchen, reading a book that says, “’That which is most personal is most common,’ … meaning that if there’s any justification for telling personal stories, it’s that every person, every selfish little clod of ailments and grievances – including you, including me – contains within himself the entire human condition.”

What if the entire human condition begins in the kitchen? The soul of your home.