I putter around in my kitchen putting lunch dishes in the dishwasher and wiping counters.
I empty the coffee pot and grind beans for the next morning’s must-have elixir. I snip Thai and Genovese basil leaves from plants growing in my Aerogarden, putting them in dishes for later use. I rub my thumb and forefinger on thyme leaves to release the fragrance—aromatherapy happening right there as I inhale the smell of memory—thyme smells like Sunday dinner.
Gerry sits at the table contemplating coloured pegs for the Mastermind game we started during lunch. I come back to the table now and then to evaluate his latest attempt at solving the code I set up, inserting red and white pegs to indicate his progress.
I’m content as I putter in the kitchen. It would be a good time to call my daughter for an afternoon chat, but she’s at work. It wasn’t so long ago that I was at work all day, and she was at home puttering in her kitchen with a little one at her feet. Was it so very long ago that I was at home, with a little one at my feet, having an afternoon phone chat with my own mom? Yes, I suppose it was.
The whisper of time passing makes me keenly aware that I’m in the senior category now. It’s good, and it’s a gift.
I hang up my dishtowel—a new aqua one I just bought, that looks like the ocean and spring and that makes me happy—and return to the table to see what progress Gerry has made at solving the code. We talk about driving down the hill to the garden centre after the game.
And life carries on.
There is something satisfying about puttering in the kitchen in particular. It is good for my heart and always reminds me of my Oma. I have many memories of her standing at the sink washing dishes before the 10 o’clock news.
There’s something sweet about kitchen memories. They say “home”, I think. And we’re all hungry for home. 🙂