FOUR KITCHENS

“My kitchen is a mystical place, a kind of temple for me.  It is a place where the surfaces seem to have significance, where the sounds and odors carry meaning that transfers from the past and bridges to the future.” Pearl Bailey

            The sun struggles through a low layer of grey Oregon clouds, casting fuzzy shadows over the kitchen table. As a guest in our son Mark’s house, I am not the cooking prima donna of years past. This Christmas in Portland, Mark is in charge.  The “surfaces . . . sounds and odors” will be different, transferring me “from the past” and bridging “to the future.”
            Yesterday we fought tense holiday crowds at the local natural foods market as we filled our cart with gourmet cheeses, tangy olives, yams, herbs, Italian wines, and some items we Minnesotans had never heard of, picking up the bill without wincing.  Today I watch Mark assemble the holiday ingredients. He will make a vegetarian version of tourtiere or pork pie, a French Canadian Christmas Eve tradition from my husband Lou’s family. The recipe I have followed for 30 years combines pork sausage, onions, mashed potatoes, cinnamon and sage in a pie crust of Crisco and white flour.  Since our other son Michael no longer eats meat, Mark experiments with soy sausage which he browns to a crisp meat-like texture, adds cinnamon, sage and fennel, tastes the mixture, frowns, adds more spice, tastes again, smiles with satisfaction.  He mixes whole wheat flour with a vegan Earth Balance shortening and trusting his instincts without measuring, adds a little water, rolling out the dough for two pie crusts.  A side dish of sweet potato pie will be an accompaniment to our new unpork pie tradition.    
            Sleek stainless steel appliances, black poured concrete countertops, and dark cherry cabinets with maple accents place this kitchen in the twenty-first century, but the cast-iron wood- burning stove warms the room with old-fashioned heat.  In some ways it could be my grandmother’s kitchen, or my mother’s, or mine.  The sounds are similar but the odors distinct, a blend of herbs unheard of in my mother’s or grandmother’s time.
            On Christmas day, Mark will prepare a Mediterranean spread, antipasto to nibble on, hummus, olives, home-made breads followed by falafel and spinach pie.  Friend Casey spends hours on a rich tiramisu, assembling lady fingers soaked in espresso, a custard mixture, and bitter chocolate, a rich addition to our meal. 
* * *
            Back home in St. Paul after the holidays, I am comfortable in my own kitchen, newly painted in shades of terra cotta and yellow, a large patio door joining my cooking space with garden space. Withered remnants of twisted vines remind me of summer’s abundance and sweaty labor--canning salsa and pickles, freezing spaghetti sauce. As I page through “Real Food Daily,” the cookbook Michael gave us for Christmas, I watch juncos and chickadees flit across our snow-covered deck. The vegan recipes include one that Michael had pointed out as his favorite--Lima Bean and Corn Soup which included an item I had never heard of—kombu.  At Mississippi Market I learn that kombu is a type of Japanese seaweed which I will place in a stockpot along with two cups dried lima beans, cover with filtered water, and allow to stand overnight.
            The next morning Lou tips the cover of the stockpot grumbling about the “cardboard” floating in the soup. I explain that kombu, which adds nutrients and flavor, will be removed before adding other ingredients. A few hours later, after retrieving the slimy bit of kombu from the stock, I add cabbage, carrots, herbs, and spices and let the mixture simmer.  When the vegetables are soft, I lower a strainer into the soup as directed, and blend one-third cup of miso into the liquid. Lou samples the broth and proclaims it one of my best soups. I knew he’d like it.
* * *
My mother’s kitchen in the small town of Montevideo where I grew up had the typical fifties look—painted white steel cabinets with metal hardware, a table topped with grey faux-marble formica trimmed in chrome, and matching chrome chairs with grey plastic cushions.  We might call it the art deco look.  Each August I am reminded of that kitchen.  Although fresh fruits and vegetables weren’t available year-round, in August my mother canned crates of peaches, pears, cherries, and apricots, as well as bushels of cucumbers, tomatoes, and apples.  Steam clung to windows the whole hot month of August as my mother canned fruits and vegetables that lined basement shelves throughout the winter.  August was hot and humid--no air conditioning, not even a fan, but the aroma of fruity syrups, vinegar and dill made it bearable.
Each meal in winter ended with a dish of home-canned sauce and a cookie.  “I never even heard of broccoli or cauliflower back then,” my mother reminisced on a recent visit in her assisted living apartment, “but we opened cans of corn, peas and green beans.  Tuna casseroles were frequent, excellent beef roasts, and always jello on special holidays!” 
* * *
            My grandmother’s farm kitchen in central Minnesota was the best of all.  Like Mark’s it had a wood burning stove which was used for cooking as well as heating water for baths.  When I was a child, we often drove 90 miles to the farm for Sunday dinner, always chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and baked beans.  ”Free range” wasn’t just a trend in those days; it was a way of life. On Saturday my grandmother chose the plumpest chickens, strangled them, plunged them into boiling water to remove the feathers, and prepared for the Sunday feast.  The potatoes had been grown in her garden as well as the beans which were dried and stored in burlap bags.  As a child, my mother hated the job of pounding the dried beans to remove them from their hulls. Apple pie topped off the Sunday meal, the crust made with lard rendered from the last butchered hog. There was always enough food for whoever showed up on Sunday to gather around the heavy oak table. I don’t think my grandmother ever removed the apron she wore over her cotton print dress. After the meal she pumped water from the pump attached to the kitchen sink, heated it on the stove, and washed the dishes
Four kitchens.  Temples.  What sounds resonate through my sixty years?  Quiet sounds, the rattle of a pan, my grandmother’s laughter, gentle brotherly teasing, tranquil sounds.  Four generations of quiet kitchens, unlike the noisy celebrations I hear about from other families. Odors?  Memories jarred by familiar cooking smells drift over the decades.  Garlic and spices of Oregon meet the soup smells of my kitchen, then mingle with the sweet and pungent smell of my mother’s August canning and finally mix with the unbeatable aroma of Grandma’s chicken and apple pie. 
Four kitchens.  Temples.  What sounds resonate through my sixty years?  Quiet sounds, the rattle of a pan, my grandmother’s laughter, gentle brotherly teasing, tranquil sounds.  Four generations of quiet kitchens, unlike the noisy celebrations I hear about from other families. Odors?  Memories jarred by familiar cooking smells drift over the decades.  Garlic and spices of Oregon meet the soup smells of my kitchen, then mingle with the sweet and pungent smell of my mother’s August canning and finally mix with the unbeatable aroma of Grandma’s chicken and apple pie.