I sit on hardwood, the spot bleached by sun, and watch my mother’s kitchen dance. Everything is yellow, the walls, the cupboards, the striped apron clinging to swaying hips. I stretch toward the smell of simmering garlic and translucent shallots. I watch my mother’s hands, calloused palms and soft knuckles, as she caresses carrots and needles through a bowl of cherry tomatoes. She kneels down, handing me a plump, red orb and we pop them in our mouths, swish and crunch. There’s no better sensation than biting down on a firm, sweet tomato. I peel myself off the warm floor wanting to stay close, wishing to dance, too. She puts a shaker in my hand and tells me a secret. Never forget to make the boiling water taste like the sea.
My mother bleeds paprika. Her cheeks are plums, her eyes are hazelnuts. I spent my childhood watching her, longing to chop and knead and peel with abandon. The kitchen of my childhood was sacred. It still is.
Our little yellow house was never quiet and always smelled of butter. Neighbors, friends, and strangers showed up in the evenings with bottles of wine and empty stomachs. With music playing beneath clinking glasses, they stood behind the kitchen counter and did what I’d always done: watch my mother dance. Noses appeared before her, curious and impatient. My father snuck into the kitchen to nibble at resting meat. He’d slice off a crispy edge and tuck it in his mouth, winking at me from across the room.
Several hours passed before the glorious reveal, a frenzy of a feast. Sitting around the table, we continued to watch my mother. She filled bowls with lemony broth, plates with hot, buttered shrimp, and baskets with garlic scented bread. I don’t know, she’d say, not my best work, which was only ever met with inaudible grumbles of joy from stuffed mouths. This is what we do, us chefs. If we know with great certainty we’ve created a crowd-pleasing dish, it must be prefaced with humble uncertainty. If we know with grave certainty that we’ve over-salted, over-cooked, burnt the roux, we’ll say nothing. It’s part of the dance.
I am from my mother’s kitchen, and it shows. It didn’t become clear to me, though, until I moved away. I’ve been apart from my mother, physically, for almost three years. We take trips here and there to eat and giggle, but for the most part, I’m on my own. Every month or so our brains will align and we’ll have cooked the same meal for friends on the exact same Friday night. Hot Browns, perhaps. Sometimes chicken thighs, apricots, and gnocchi. Even across the country, we’re in the same kitchen.
I spent last Sunday making a pot of gumbo. The kitchen filled with a smell I can only describe as nutty, tangy, spicy, sweetness. My hands flitted around the room, grabbing and tearing and chopping and peeling. I spent four hours like this, bouncing around the stovetop, shuffling through ingredients. It wasn’t until I paused to taste the gumbo that I realized I’d been dancing.
Later that evening, with six pairs of eyes watching my every move, I ladled steaming gumbo into bowls with hunks of sourdough. As soon as everyone was seated around the dining room table, spoons in hand, I made a quick announcement. I hope it tastes okay, might need some extra seasoning.
Burns speckle my forearms from hot pans and oven doors. Cuts coat my knuckles from zesting lemons and peeling potatoes. I look down at my calloused palms and think of my mother, the woman who taught me to stumble and fumble and work with my hands. I think of every moment spent watching her marinate chicken, wine glass in hand. I think of the nights we danced together in her kitchen, just the two of us, with a living room full of hungry neighbors. I think of the arguments we’ve settled over beignets and coffee.
At twenty-five, I constantly hear friends talk about how they couldn’t possibly bear becoming anything like their mothers. I’m afraid I’ve lost that battle. I’m afraid that, in a few years, my friends will, too.
My mother bleeds paprika. I bleed my mother. We share the same plum cheeks and hazelnut eyes. I am from my mother’s kitchen, but more importantly, I am from my mother. Her kitchen was sacred. It still is, and so are we.