Historically, the hearth was a stone or brick-lined fireplace used for heating and cooking food. Because the hearth was an integral part of the home, usually its most important feature, the word became synonymous with the meaning of home. We still center ourselves around the kitchen. How many of us, during a party will meander through a house until we are standing in the kitchen with others? The kitchen could be considered the heart of any home.
“When I am in the Kitchen” by Jeanne Marie Beaumont uses a stream-of-consciousness style as she goes about her business in the kitchen, looking at and using objects that are closely linked to family and memory:
When I am in the Kitchen
I think about the past. I empty the ice-cube trays
crack crack cracking like bones, and I think
of decades of ice cubes and of John Cheever,
of Anne Sexton making cocktails, of decades
of cocktail parties, and it feels suddenly far
too lonely at my counter. Although I have on hooks
nearby the embroidered apron of my friend’s
grandmother and one my mother made for me
for Christmas 30 years ago with gingham I had
coveted through my childhood. In my kitchen
I wield my great aunt’s sturdy black-handled
soup ladle and spatula, and when I pull out
the drawer, like one in a morgue, I visit
the silverware of my husband’s grandparents.
We never met, but I place this in my mouth
every day and keep it polished out of duty.
In the cabinets I find my godmother’s
teapot, my mother’s Cambridge glass goblets,
my mother-in-law’s Franciscan plates, and here
is the cutting board my first husband parqueted
and two potholders I wove in grade school.
Oh the past is too much with me in the kitchen,
where I open the vintage metal recipe box,
robin’s egg blue in its interior, to uncover
the card for Waffles, writ in my father’s hand
reaching out from the grave to guide me
from the beginning, “sift and mix dry ingredients”
with his note that this makes “3 waffles in our
large pan” and around that our an unbearable
round stain—of egg yolk or melted butter?—
that once defined a world.
Try It
Write a poem about your kitchen or the items in it. Do you have recipe books or pots and pans that have been passed down to you? Is there a chair eased to a place of sublime comfort that is none other than your favorite spot? Describe what is rich and meaningful in your kitchen and create poetry from these things. Share it with us in the comment section below.
Featured Poem
Thanks to everyone who participated in last week’s poetry prompt. Here is a poem by Ken we enjoyed:
Forwarding Address Requested
Many homes have
housed these bones,
walls and floors
like arms and laps,
ghosted with the echoes
of lives lived within,
where the setting
becomes part of the cast.
See these dwellings as people
the shape and carry of them
in mind’s eye,
like family,
miss them each as much,
or not,
when they are gone
as aunts or uncles,
cozy grandparents,
or lovers turned cold.
Each parting,
taken through packing,
pallet and postal change,
is a grieving,
change of chapter
in the story of ourselves,
close and lock the door,
drop off the key,
turn the page.
—by Ken Denk
Photo by Laura Henderson. Creative Commons via Flickr.
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How to Write a Poem uses images like the buzz, the switch, the wave—from the Billy Collins poem “Introduction to Poetry”—to guide writers into new ways of writing poems. Excellent teaching tool. Anthology and prompts included.
“How to Write a Poem is a classroom must-have.”
—Callie Feyen, English Teacher, Maryland
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Robbie Pruitt says
Kitchen Grace
Grace and her mother are a perfect team.
Mom orchestrating the ingredients;
Grace perched proudly in her chair,
Wooden spoon in hand—focused.
The mixer loudly churns butter and sugar.
She exclaims, “I don’t put my finger in there!”
Flour dusts the countertop and covers everything.
Grace in her fascination makes cookies for her dad.
© December 14, 2015, Robbie Pruitt
Andrew H says
I see myself. Is this usual?
The table faces outward
Into darkness. There, swimming
In the ink of time
I rest.
There I can see inward,
Not out. Light, black tiles
The bustle of some meal
Progressing like instruction;
A test.
There is a pineapple, shining
Belleek, quite rare – unique
With swirling lid. It lay
A time, but when was it
Caressed?
A book, I’m sure it must
Be mine, sits stately
By the chair. A gift
Left there for me, at my
Behest.
Most of all, comfort;
Life, and joy, and care.
They were such happy days. Inward
So very inward, comes reply –
The last.
A bag shifts weight, the me
In flows of time ripples. Window
Stares forlorn at me. It’s dark, so dark.
The past leaves us so suddenly,
So fast.
I tried something new with this one, let me know if it worked! Don’t worry, I’m not as grim as this portrays – I was just experimenting a wee bit.
L. L. Barkat says
I especially like:
“In the ink of time
I rest.”
and
“There is a pineapple, shining
Belleek, quite rare – unique
With swirling lid”
Also, I did enjoy the form you played with. And how the last two rhymes are full rhymes with each other and half rhymes with the rest. Almost gives it the faint echo of a sonnet. 🙂
Andrew H says
Thanks – you picked out the two bits that I’m happy with, and I was actually thinking of a sonnet when I wrote the last bit. Very discerning of you, heh. 🙂
nancy marie davis says
dishes dishes
hard sealed
dirty day
old
wait
and wait
for that sudsy
burst shine
scrubbed
crumbs
trashed
i am the center
the sink full with
still still water
the stove is
cooler than that empty fridge
portions for one
frozen love
bowl and spoon
to feed me
Katie says
Making Fruit Cakes With Mama
Tip-toed, I stretch
on the small wooden stool,
craning my neck to see over the lip of the huge mixing bowl.
There’s a mountain in it!
Sure enough – of deep greens and rich reds,
candied fruit that shines like jewels on top of
white shredded coconut, walnut pieces, golden raisins.
Next we’ll add dry ingredients
measuring with the spoons on the ring
and the cups hanging from hooks above the sink.
Then, some other things she calls wet ingredients:
fresh eggs, vegetable oil, vanilla extract, “may I smell the cap?”
“Okay, and we better get the phone book to make you taller. Can’t have you
slipping while you help me stir everything together!”
I rub my tummy
as my fingers, hands, and arms
can’t wait to stir the mound until it’s gooey, lumpy, yummy.
While she stands behind me
I help her make the fruit cake for our friends
and neighbors who will soon taste this Christmas Treat.
Won’t they be surprised that I’m big enough now for baking with Mama!
Katie says
small kitchen island
circling you with puppy eyes
they await the bowl
&
window over sink
looking out across the green
golfers wait to putt
&
my first pair
of floral cafe curtains
billow in the wind
&
a clear canal view
showing clouds or sky above
changes with the tides
&
two tiered counter top
divides food prep from playtime
copper fridge and stove
&
three doors in or out
sometimes makes me want to shout
go the other way
&
large bowing window
lends front row seat on bird show
red wings come and go
Well, talk about a walk down memory lane – these haiku share memories of kitchens I have known:)