Kitchen stories

We are continuously telling stories: to our friends, around the lunch table at work, to children in the hopes of getting them to sleep. Before we become adults and have had our storytelling somewhat stunted by what is perceived as fact, as children we see the world through story. One story of my childhood is about the need to tell stories despite ideal conditions.

We lived in many different houses as I was growing up, but I distinctly remember the heating system of one of them. Well, the term 'heating system' is a loose one: scrap the mental image of a monstrous furnace buried in the basement that may be brewing in your head and replace that image with this one - that of a black, iron stove. It lived smack in the middle of the main floor of our home. We lived in an older two storey home, complete with wavy and worn linoleum on the kitchen floor; it had seen many feet before ours.

The main floor was primarily taken up by this kitchen, and I remember it as being the hub of all activity. It was large, and every room on the first floor opened up to it as if acknowledging its place of importance. The living room and play room were tucked off to one side, their combined square footage not powerful enough to knock the kitchen off centre stage. Hulking in the kitchen, spotlight seemingly drawing everyone's attention to it, was the one item which kept our home cosy through the cold Ontario winters - an old cast iron airtight stove.

For those of you who haven't had the pleasure of feeling the warmth emitted from one of these beasts, let me attempt a description: close your eyes and find yourself on the other side of a pane of glass on a sunny day in spring - you know, those days when one can start to feel the intensity of the sun after months of abandonment. It could be March, April or even May - but the feeling is distinct. A deep warmth from the sun penetrates our chilled outer layer, and the heat seems targeted to our core. That is the feeling of the warmth from one of these old iron stoves.

Above the stove was a large hole that allowed for air flow to the upper floor. The hole was covered with an iron grate, intricately designed and ornately carved for a humble farm style house. Covered by decades of paint, the iron surface was incredibly smooth; curls of metal became flowers and vines as my small fingers traced along the surface of the grate in an effort to determine how long I could keep finger to metal without a break.

The grate served two purposes, in actual fact: yes, it allowed for warm air to rise and circulate into the bedrooms and bath overhead, but it also allowed for a young girl sequestered in her room to communicate with her sister below. I was occasionally sent to my room for some wrongdoing - I'm sure it was a set up, but I was never once given a chance to prove my innocence.

During these times when I was sent to my room to 'think about what I had done', I spent the time writing notes to my sister who was somewhere downstairs. Our method of communication was to write a note as small as possible, attach it to a piece of thread, and lower it through the grate when the other walked below.

I remember hunching on the floor of our shared bedroom, scribbling thoughts in small handwriting, tying the string and lowering note after note to my sister. We were partners in our defiance, telling stories to one another that had been told dozens of times.

There is something about writing those notes that I miss.

I haven't thought about this story in quite some time, nor have I told it in ages - if at all. In fact, I can't recall telling this story to anyone.

This is only one of many kitchens stories from my childhood - from my family. The kitchen attracted us like moths to a bulb on a dark night: I didn't understand why, but we just needed to be there. It's likely because my family has a history of kitchen dwelling; Acadian families had large kitchens, usually holding the main heat source for the home which on cold winter nights would draw the family close. I guess that is one reason why I like my kitchen to be inviting, warm, and comfortable - and why I tend to end up in the kitchen with my friends when we entertain. It's a good place to be, and a great place to tell and share stories.

Now, the smell of an Acadian kitchen is another story entirely.


~ Jeannette