Life Around Food

My mouth waters, my eyes close and a volcanic eruption develops series of random voices coming from my stomach. Steam arises from the twenty inch bowl; aggressive pots and pans clank when put on the stove; the aroma of seasoned chicken in garlic creep through the air spaces on the sides of my door and call me down for dinner. But, it isn’t just a
designated time in which my family consumes necessary nutrition value; it has always been about the experience. Whether we eat out or dine in my family, food and lifestyle have grown together.

It was a kitchen of teal glass walls, or of walls that would have been green if my Mom had liked them better; but as matters stood it was a kitchen of stone flooring and stainless steel pots that
shimmered like gold when hit the light. It was a kitchen of barking dogs and a smoke alarm that rang, which in turn made the dogs bark louder for ever and ever, and it never stopped until
the smoke alarm stopped. It had a snack cabinet, a dog food cabinet, a sauces cabinet, a cereal cabinet, a shelf designated only for milk in the fridge and an abundance of fruits piled high in
a bowl nearby the window. In the center of the kitchen stood one round, faded brown table that was unlike anything else, nearby the dark brown cabinets that still didn’t match, awaiting to be
inhabited by people who were unalike, who all did different things at different times with completely different people, to do one activity differently, yet together sitting around one round faded brown table.

Altogether my kitchen is the heart of my family, indifferent in appearance but extraordinary in meaningful value. Healthy food. Tasty food. Just Food. My family agrees my mom is a good cook: She flambés the shrimp for the shrimp scampi and then bring out her favorite cheesecake
brownie. Surrounded by my family we exhale in relaxation as we are about to partake our last meal of the day, while enjoying each other’s company. My sister exhausted from cheer practice; myself taking a break from my studies; my mom eager to hear how all of our days went; and my father drained from the long commute from San Francisco. I listen to my dad talk about his motorcycle adventures, while my sister talks about her new hairstyles, my mom sits eagerly for compliments on the meal she prepared, and I just eat. Breakfast, lunch, dinner- gives us the chance to interact thought our busy and different lives.

On certain occasions my family and I would eat at a local restaurant for dinner. The restaurant
was homey but was far from home; the restaurant had music while my kitchen had voices that conversed; the restaurant was congested while my kitchen was private. The restaurant was popular and trendy but at home meals are eternal. My kitchen is small while the restaurant is big; awaiting different groups to be seated in different spots ordering different meals; while my kitchen has the same people going to eat at the same time waiting for the same meal seated in the same seats.

Mike-a hardworking, appears to be college student, who wore a black t-shirt light brown shorts and brown curly hair-took our order. The same uniform lines of speech were evoked “Hello, my name is Mike, what you would like to eat this evening?” After short discussion my mom replies with our order, “Tonight we will have, a small seafood fettuccini and an extra-large fettuccini Alfred and a pesto vegetarian pizza and a smoked chicken pizza and four glasses of water and a basket of bread sticks and a glass of lemonade and a glass of ice-tea and most importantly a salad.” The table we sat at was addressed for six people, but we were only four. It was a black table with green table mats and thin silverware topped off with a fake candle that flickered and two light purple orchids. The lights were dimmed and the food cooking in the kitchen just behind our seats warmed the entire restaurant. We each took turns talking, we talked of school, food, and plans we had of weekend adventures as if we were limiting conversations if others might overhear. The walls were crackled red brick with pictures of the ocean on some parts while other had flags from different countries. By 7:54 p.m., when the restaurant was empty on a Tuesday night, we finished our meals and left the dimming restaurant through the glass doors that resisted from the windy Petaluma air.

I am given about 30 seconds to decide if I want to eat out or eat at home. Whichever we choose,
the food is made and we gather to reunite the family from out separate lives. It was the kitchen, it was the restaurant, and it was my family that made the experience. Whether it’s the teal glass walls or red bricks covered with frames; it was the food and value of being with my loving family to cherish and indulge in life.