The kitchens in my life have left a vivid impression on my memory. The way they were and the cooks who reigned supreme in them continue to influence my cooking.
The aroma of bacon lingered in my grandmother Della’s Ada kitchen along with those of fried pies and simmering butter beans. She wore a bib apron made from a feed sack as she orchestrated breakfast. She used her apron to gather eggs fresh from the henhouse, then scrambled them in a well-seasoned iron skillet.
Next door on 14th Street lived my maternal grandmother, who loved to decorate things and served canned peas at every important meal. Her kitchen was large and white with a wall of sliding doors that stored dishes of every sort and size — some shaped like apples, some with Safeway dogwood blossoms and Lipton tea-green glasses. I use some of the pretty glasses for special occasions, which reminds me of the times I was allowed to drink ice tea like the grown-ups.
I wonder what memories our kitchens may hold for future generations. I hope we all keep cooking up memories.
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