Say It in the Kitchen

Someday I’ll stand barefoot in my own kitchen, and I will love every minute of it. I’ll dance around whisking brownie mix or stand by the counter and knead dough with flour on my chin. Music will be wafting through the air, intermingling with whatever I’ve just thrust into the oven. Somehow, I’ll always end up wearing black on the days I use the most flour, but I will eventually master cracking an egg with one hand. My fridge will be cluttered, but my eyes will be bright as I welcome imperfect people to an imperfect home. It is where we will grow.

Some kitchens have a fresh-out-of-the-box feeling. All the cupboards look the same, and it takes a couple of tries to find the coffee mugs. Others have a lived-in, things-on-the-counter-and-coffee-rings-on-the-table feel to them. I prefer the latter myself because you get a glimpse behind the curtain. When people are free to live out their imperfections and processes, they can grow. In some homes, people gravitate to the back porch or the living room, but I’ve always found solace in the kitchen.

Growing up, our kitchen was always busy. My mother baked, cooked, mixed, kneaded… you name it, she did it. Her sense of hospitality is unparalleled, and I hope I’m that welcoming some day. Some years, we had swarms of international students laughing at jell-o eggs or putting too many toppings in their burritos. Other years, we had four girls making Christmas cookies, inadvertently smearing frosting everywhere. Our kitchen was a gathering place.

A couple of weeks ago, my team was speaking in Canada, and –you guessed it– I was in a kitchen, at our host home to be precise, with the woman of the house. We had just finished the event that day and were operating on our umpteenth wind. Coffee hadn’t quite entered the equation, but I recall a Boston Crème donut somewhere along the way.

Exhaustion was overtaking us, but words have a mind of their own. Sometimes when you’re running on empty and questions crowd out the answers, you just need to stand in the kitchen for a while.

We began reflecting over the past couple of days and soon found ourselves knee-deep in soul-talk. The minutes danced by as conversation twisted through interests to cares to hopes to dreams. My soul was fed, and the hands that prepared the meal welcomed my hurting heart.

The wisdom and nurturing in those late hours is seldom forgotten, and I still wonder how those nuggets of truth last overnight.

I understand that not everyone enjoys the transparency of standing in a kitchen before the woman of the house. If it is her domain, you are walking in with an open invitation for questions. Maybe that is why it feels so freeing. After the meal, when the suds are drifting and everyone is looking for the ice cream scoop, the kitchen is welcoming and unsuspecting. The food has been eaten and the expectations are gone. People can simply be.

How often can we simply be anymore? We are fast-paced creatures, always straining for the moments ahead. Maybe we ought to spend more time in the kitchen and less inside our own heads.