Story of the kitchen

At home we have a long and narrow kitchen. With more than one person in it, everyone feels ill at ease. Maybe that is why my mom didn't like our presence. When we volunteered to help or to look at her, she would whisk us away impatiently. So I thought of the kitchen as "her" domain. Even though she didn't always take delight in cooking, it was a sacred space for her. When I was young, I understood the significance of the kitchen for her and respected it.

Then I found myself an adult. I felt burgeoning in me the need of spending time in the kitchen. In the beginning it was merely a faint whisper, "Go, take a try. You won't be sent to hell simply in using the kitchen for one day." I desired to cook for the man I loved, and I needed to borrow my mom's kitchen for practice. With the courage of love, I took the plunge at the risk of being scolded an discouraged.

It turned out to be very different from what I had expected. My mom had planned the retirement from the kitchen for a while. She was tired of preparing food after doing it for decades. She found other interests outside the small kitchen. Instead of supervising my every move, she learned to relax spontaneouly. However, every woman knows how difficult it is to take the transition from someone who fidgets in the kitchen to being a couch potato. The kitchen is still part of her, but not everything.

I was delighted to find a new place for me. There is by no means any word to describe my joy in discovering my talent in the culinary art when I always stuck to the idea I was nothing in cooking. The beautiful aroma of food drifting in the air, the resounding music of chops falling on vegetables, the passionate fire and heat that penetrates the food. I might not find the kitchen so soothing as the heroine in Yoshimoto Banana's book, but it's a place to calm my soul. I began to realize why many moms treasure the kitchen so, even if they did not put it in words.

The kitchen in France is a heaven. There is no limit, no restraint to whatever I'd love to try. I am too eager to exert my talent. In the end, I just forget what I knew so well--every kitchen belongs to a certain woman. Before I find mine, I am just a guest. Even competitions come in very subtile forms in the kitchen. The traces fall in conversations and comments about food not with any malicious intent. Far from it. It's just that how can I take for granted such a place that isn't mine? On one hand, I am ashamed of my temporary amnesia; on the other hand, I try to take a step back.

Even when I am not in the kitchen, the clinking sounds of glasses and silverware still gives my heart a beat. I wonder with what exotique dishes we are going to please our tastebuds today. In the meanwhile, I ask myself, "Where is my kitchen?"