A Spot of Time, by Alina Aelenei

There are places that are so deeply engraved in our minds, that the mere memory of those places can make us feel happy. For me, that special place is the kitchen of the home where I grew up. It was a place where the entire family gathered. We had our most meaningful and memorable conversations in this place. However, due to the events that have changed our lives, the moments we now share in the kitchen as a family are rare. For this reason, the kitchen will always be cherished “spot of time.”

The home we grew up in was in Plymouth, Michigan. From the kitchen window we had the view of our backyard. In the warmer months we could see tall, deep-rooted trees, lush green grass, my mother’s bountiful garden, our aboveground pool and trampoline from the window.

During my childhood, my father owned a tile installation business, so our kitchen was covered in tiles. The kitchen was tiled with beige and cream-colored ceramic tile everywhere, from the floor to the countertops and backsplash. We even had tiles halfway up the wall in the kitchen. A glass fireplace surrounded by cream-colored granite separated the kitchen and living room. Our father built the ivory marble kitchen table. The oak-colored cabinets were filled with aromatic spices, crunchy breakfast cereals, tomato-based sauces, and starchy noodles and bread. The refrigerator was covered in photos of my family, holiday cards from friends and extended family, and flamboyant artwork created by my younger siblings.

  
The kitchen was a gathering place where we spent of lot of time because it is where my mother always was. The dining table was a part of the kitchen, and this is where my four siblings and I sat to be near our mother. My mother has always loved cooking, and she made meals that required hours of preparation. Some of my fondest memories are of my mother teaching me to prepare meals. She would bring vibrant vegetables, pungent garlic, and fragrant herbs to the dining table where I sat so I could chop them up while she continued to cook in the kitchen.

Every day after school, my siblings and I would go straight to the table in the kitchen and eat an after-school snack that my mother had prepared. At the table we would all share stories about our eventful day, discuss our grades, and work on homework. My father worked many late nights, so my mother always served a late dinner for him when he arrived. Although my siblings and I had already eaten dinner, we would sit with my parents at the colossal 6’ x 9’ foot table and devour scrumptious cookies with milk. The kitchen was our living area, as that is where we spent most of our time together.

The dynamic of our family and our lovely home have changed with the passing years. The children have grown into adults and, in turn, the members of our robust family slowly disconnected from the place we called home. One by one, as my siblings and I aspired to follow our dreams, the kitchen grew unoccupied and quiet. The delectable meals my mother laboriously cooked at one time became rare. The kitchen is bare, as it is now merely filled with the memories of our youth. The only material item from the kitchen that remains after the last of our family moved out of the home we grew up in is the sturdy marble dining table that once accommodated a family of seven. That table, blurred memories, and candid photos are the only effects left of our unforgettable, cherished kitchen.

Today, when my family and I stand in our new kitchen, we have moments that remind us of the “spot in time” spent in the kitchen where we grew up. Although it is rare to have the entire family together, when we do, we still sit at the table while my mom cooks savory meals. We still share our stories that are now about our college experiences, our jobs, and our relationships and try to recall the fading memories we had in our kitchen many years ago.