Familiar

Like clockwork every evening I slide down a long hallway in my socks from my bedroom to the kitchen. As I enter, I jump up onto the black granite counter top and sit “criss cross applesauce” while my dog barks at my mom, walking in the door, finally home from work. The smell of Coco Van fills the kitchen as my dad frantically rushes everyone out of his way. The atmosphere that fills this room could never be recreated. From any outsider we would appear to be just a normal family, with a normal kitchen; our kitchen, however, is far from ordinary.
Our kitchen-a place for family and friends, jokes and debates, singing and dancing-is the warmest place in our home (literally and figuratively). Walking in, one would notice the fresh loaf of banana bread sitting on the counter, or the apples and bananas in a fruit basket, or the plate of cinnamon cookies that were made for a fellow classmate. But one would not notice all the meaning those food items possess. The cookies were made by my brother and I, as we sang along to popular Lady Gaga songs, the bread was an experiment that my brother and I bonded over, and the fruit is merely a toy for my brother and I every night. Also quite noticeable is the sparkling black granite, one would assume it was chosen for its stylish qualities but that is a false assumption. It was chosen for its durability. These counters can withstand many accidents, such as a knife being thrown from across the room and missing the sink. It still does not scratch. No marks are made when a burning skillet slams down upon it and sits there because I have burnt a finger making a grilled cheese sandwich, and still no damage is done when my dog’s claws support her weight as she gets a better look at our thanksgiving dinner.
One of the not so noticeable things in our kitchen is the height chart. My mom has tracked our height since we could stand up straight. It is all in pencil and illegible unless you look up close and two names an observer will come to find do not belong. Those names belong to the two men that worked on our house every weekend for about a year and became a small part to our family. Those two men are the reason our kitchen is the way it is. They created the fluidity by removing cabinets that obstructed the view of the family room, the installed the counters that endure two teenagers, and they replaced the lighting fixtures that I punctured with a lime green broom handle. That lighting fixture is not the only thing I’ve ruined: I broke countless wine glasses and plates and bowls, and saltshakers, and spice jars, and shot glasses, and the microwave and even the smoke detector that wouldn’t turn off when I broke the microwave. Finally is the small rectangular hole in our hardwood floors. My dad had to fill it with special color matched putty after one of my high heels caused such a flaw during one of my late night games of dress up. Although these details are hardly noticeable to anyone besides my family, they give our kitchen character.
Perhaps the most prominent feature in any kitchen is the refrigerator. What’s inside, along with what is on the front strongly reflects the people living in the household. Our fridge has report cards, magnets, schedules for practice, games, and rehearsals, and pictures. There is a picture of my sister’s wedding, school pictures of my brother and I, a photo from Shollenberger park, my dad’s golf group in Mesquite, our Christmas card from two years ago, a softball picture, and a picture of a younger version of me with a snake twice my size looped around my neck. Inside the fridge is a combination of all of our favorite foods; strawberries for me, edamame for my mom, fancy cheese for my brother and bologna for my dad. Of course there are common things in our fridge such as milk, eggs, butter, and what not, but how many people can say they have nine different types of juice in their fridge? Not many.
This space is not just somewhere for my father to compose all of our meals, it is a space for me to have my own personal American Idol stage. I sing: not well, not on key, not using the right words, but I sing. My mom usually picks music on iTunes while I do the dishes after dinner, and I sing to my hearts content. My neighbors have called before to ask if everything was dandy in our household, which indeed it was. But I suppose that’s what I deserve for singing out the window above the sink that just so happens to face their daughter’s bedroom. That window also has wooden blinds to hide my moronic dancing from those same neighbors view. Just beneath the window is our stainless steel sink with aromatherapy stress relief hand soap resting on the side. That very soap contributes to the smell of eucalyptus that envelopes anyone walking by while the sink is running.
I sit. I talk. I do homework. All of these tasks take place sitting on my lovely counter in my favorite room. My mom often hears about high school drama, homework woes, or crazy ideas I have while I’m sitting on my perch. Often I lay on my stomach, feet in the air, crossed at the ankles and read her my essays, or get biology help from my brother, sitting only a few feet away.
Dancing, laughing, bonding-gathering in a kitchen is the best way to spend time with my family. With busy schedules we rarely have time to discuss important events in our lives, but while my dad is cooking, my mom checks her email, my brother and I complete homework we are all in the same room, breathing the same air, having the same conversation. This kitchen has flaws, it has silly pictures and dorky magnets on the fridge and it has items with deeper meaning than anyone could begin to understand; this kitchen is familiar, it’s safe, it’s my place.

-Jenna