My mother’s first kitchen as a married woman was in the back of an old, brick bungalow. The cabinets had been painted so many times, there was a softness to the wood when you opened a door. You could see that they had once been painted black, but for our family, they were bright yellow. The kitchen wasn’t big. It held a small, chrome, yellow-topped table where neighbors would sit for a cup of coffee made on the stove in a metal pot with a reusable filter. My mother’s second kitchen as a wife and mother was bigger. The cabinets were dark, but the wallpaper was bright green with yellow flowers. The table was big enough for several people to sit down for a cold glass of sweet tea or a cup of coffee (made in a modern drip system).
The flavors and smells that came out of Mom’s kitchen were wonderful. If she got tired of cooking and baking for all of us, we never knew because she never complained about it. The best part of her kitchen was the love everyone felt when they sat at those tables. My mother’s kitchen was a place people could come and be completely themselves and know they would not be judged. It was a place where they could and would laugh so hard, their eyes would water. It was also a place they could come and have a good cry if they needed one. My mother was always there to lend an ear or hold a hand.
There are times when all of us need a place like my mother’s kitchen, and there are times when we are called to be someone’s kitchen. It may look different now. We might meet at a coffee shop kitchen instead of our own. We might text our love to those with whom distance prevents us from meeting in person. The important thing is that we be that kitchen for each other. Be the bright yellow, soft-feeling cabinet or the cheerful wallpaper. Be the table where everyone is welcome. Let people know they are not alone and that someone cares. This world needs more kitchens like the one my mother created.