When I was a kid, the kitchen in our house in East Lansing, Michigan, was the center of many activities, most having to do with Mom.
In the early days, our electric stove stood next to the dining room on four rather elegant curved legs, with the oven resting on the surface beside the burners. The refrigerator next to the stove also had legs, but they were short and unattractive. A spool-shaped condenser occupied most of the top surface. Inside, a small freezer, shaped like a shoe box, held an ice tray and, on good days, a pint or two of ice cream. Heavy hinges and an imposing handle secured the door.
Beside the refrigerator, an open space led past a small bathroom with sink and toilet and on to stairs that accessed a side door next to the driveway. On the wall next to that door was the insulated milk box, where the milkman put our glass bottles of milk, then clucked to his horse to move on to the next customer while he walked alongside.
Next to the bathroom was our dining nook. It boasted a small alcove-shelf that held our black telephone, a short upright tube with dial at the bottom and flared speaker at the top. The earpiece rested in a bracket on the side. The nook also had a tall narrow door where the swing-down ironing board lived. The telephone was the only one in the house, so private conversations were never private. Once, when I was a teen, Mom, in a rare outburst said, “I am so sick of your yes-no conversations!”
The wall next to the nook was all cupboards, counters and sink. Counters held the bread box – tin with a slanted top compartment, and at the opposite end, around the corner, bowls for bananas and, in summer, peaches, apples or other local fruit.
No dishwasher, they hadn’t yet been invented. No disposal, a metal sieve shaped like a triangle held garbage in a corner of the sink. No division in the sink, it was shallow and flat, about 3 ½ feet wide and maybe 1 ½ feet deep.
The heartbeats of the kitchen were the tasks: cooking, dishwashing, canning, draining, usually accompanied by conversation and often with mom and I harmonizing while she washed and I dried the dishes.
Once, during canning season, I stood at the sink pitting sour cherries. “I wish I was left- handed,” I said to Mom.
“Why is that?”
“Well, I pick up the cherry from the bowl with my right hand, squeeze the seed out, and then I have to reach across to put it in the other bowl.”
“Try reversing the bowls,” she said, rolling her eyes. Oh.
We laughed and talked about habits and the ways one could improve tasks by simple means. In our work sessions she also managed to pry from me many details about my life that I later wished I hadn’t shared.
How many differences from today’s kitchens? We can be in and out quickly, shout over dishwasher noise and store lots of food in the freezer.
None of that, however, leads to singing, “There’s a long, long trail a-winding . . . “
Clarice, as always when I read your articles, they highlight our day.