It's always in the kitchen
A cup of tea sits on the richly stained wood. Ancient drips from thousands of cups of warm liquid in ceramic mugs and delicate porcelain cover the kitchen table with stories of decades of stories.
Faint memories of the hollow sound of silver spoons clank against fragile sides of teacups, long ago brushed away crumbs of biscuits and apple cake cling to tiny shadows of dark puddles in saucers.
The kitchen table is where it happens, where emotions run freely, whether it is as one flops into a chair and spills a torrent of feelings onto the pumpkin pine planks, or after a few mugs of steaming sweetness, small talking until the words turn serious or the eruption of joy can be contained no longer. The lamp is switched on, the kettle warmed, sweaters pulled over shoulders as the conversation continues in the steady, calming silence of the room. Or opera music trickles in from the living room while those in charge saute and steam and bake, glass of wine in hand, ear open to the cocktail talk rambling on, spilling into the dining room decorated with candles and china where the evening will continue.
Most kitchen tables are where life takes place. But for me, on a quiet island in Maine, that holds even more true. In the old sea captain's house brimming with antiques and art and animals, you knock once, maybe twice, then you let yourself in. You call for whomever you happen to be visiting, you pet the dog, you wait until the patter of steps grows near and you are offered a cup of tea, a coffee, a chunk of cheese or a gluten free (delicious!) brownie. Even if you just stopped by to drop off a note or pick up a book or let them know the car is fixed, you end up staying for awhile. This is how it is in most kitchens on the island, or so it seems. As one from away, you get over the mild anxiety of small talk and learn to enjoy the simple social interaction, the kindness, the occasional gossip (OK, not so much occasional, but how do you differentiate the constant "catching up with community news" from gossip?). You learn not to glance at your watch because really do you have much to do anyway? Unless of course you are one of those who have several jobs, reside on several community boards and fund-raising committees, are a volunteer fireman and EMT and perhaps a caterer on the side. Yet during the long off-season, you generally have time to talk. And you want to talk because this is your community and unlike some other places in the world where you don't know your neighbors, on a small island in a big bay at the tip of the country, you are part of a living organism that needs to communicate to survive.
And the kitchen table facilitates that.
Revolutions are planned from kitchen tables.
Romances hashed out, employment discovered or offered, life changes recorded during the interlude between tea and supper.
Maybe its because nobody locks their doors. You knock, you enter, you sit and wait knowing that eventually someone will appear. And will understand. And will give you a cup of tea and make you feel better. Or will disagree with you. Or will share a story or a tear or a smile.
I want to create my own kitchen table, stained with memories and joy and kindness.
Can I bring my kitchen table with me, pockets stuffed with sachets of tea, crumbling cookies?
As long as you're there and I'm there and we sit and talk and dream, I'd like to think the answer is yes.
Faint memories of the hollow sound of silver spoons clank against fragile sides of teacups, long ago brushed away crumbs of biscuits and apple cake cling to tiny shadows of dark puddles in saucers.
The kitchen table is where it happens, where emotions run freely, whether it is as one flops into a chair and spills a torrent of feelings onto the pumpkin pine planks, or after a few mugs of steaming sweetness, small talking until the words turn serious or the eruption of joy can be contained no longer. The lamp is switched on, the kettle warmed, sweaters pulled over shoulders as the conversation continues in the steady, calming silence of the room. Or opera music trickles in from the living room while those in charge saute and steam and bake, glass of wine in hand, ear open to the cocktail talk rambling on, spilling into the dining room decorated with candles and china where the evening will continue.
Most kitchen tables are where life takes place. But for me, on a quiet island in Maine, that holds even more true. In the old sea captain's house brimming with antiques and art and animals, you knock once, maybe twice, then you let yourself in. You call for whomever you happen to be visiting, you pet the dog, you wait until the patter of steps grows near and you are offered a cup of tea, a coffee, a chunk of cheese or a gluten free (delicious!) brownie. Even if you just stopped by to drop off a note or pick up a book or let them know the car is fixed, you end up staying for awhile. This is how it is in most kitchens on the island, or so it seems. As one from away, you get over the mild anxiety of small talk and learn to enjoy the simple social interaction, the kindness, the occasional gossip (OK, not so much occasional, but how do you differentiate the constant "catching up with community news" from gossip?). You learn not to glance at your watch because really do you have much to do anyway? Unless of course you are one of those who have several jobs, reside on several community boards and fund-raising committees, are a volunteer fireman and EMT and perhaps a caterer on the side. Yet during the long off-season, you generally have time to talk. And you want to talk because this is your community and unlike some other places in the world where you don't know your neighbors, on a small island in a big bay at the tip of the country, you are part of a living organism that needs to communicate to survive.
And the kitchen table facilitates that.
Revolutions are planned from kitchen tables.
Romances hashed out, employment discovered or offered, life changes recorded during the interlude between tea and supper.
Maybe its because nobody locks their doors. You knock, you enter, you sit and wait knowing that eventually someone will appear. And will understand. And will give you a cup of tea and make you feel better. Or will disagree with you. Or will share a story or a tear or a smile.
I want to create my own kitchen table, stained with memories and joy and kindness.
Can I bring my kitchen table with me, pockets stuffed with sachets of tea, crumbling cookies?
As long as you're there and I'm there and we sit and talk and dream, I'd like to think the answer is yes.
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