Welcome to my digital writing journal, or mydigitalclutter. What started as a family blog almost two years ago has morphed into my writing therapy. This is where I do a lot of free writing, mostly about my life with my family and the things that catch my interest. While nowhere even close to perfect, in each post I like to see how my writing is changing with time and practice. Most posts are left unedited for this reason, so if you don't mind, take the journey with me.

Monday, March 9, 2009

Kitchen Dreams

I remember as a little girl, watching my mom in the kitchen, baking up all sorts of goodies. I would sit on the counter, or stand on a kitchen chair and watch as the baking soda, vanilla, and a little flour and sugar would create chocolate chip cookies or cake.

In fact, there was a time while we were living in Brigham City (I may have been about four at this time) I sat on the counter and sang "Cinnamon, cinnamon, who's got the cinnamon" from a road show or something that I had seen. I remember my parents laughing at/with me and I was certain that working in the kitchen was special.

I've always like to cook and bake, but I don't do it often enough. I was making yeast bread by the time I was twelve, and loved the process, even if it seemed to take all day. I learned how to put up peaches, and even did them by myself the year I graduated high school. That all seemed to end when I went away to college.

Living in an apartment with three other girls did not make for easy food storage, of even the smallest variety. I had one side of a cupboard for my staples and whatever else I needed, generally Rice-a-Roni. I didn't buy things like baking soda because I didn't use it. I spent as little time as possible in the kitchen, and when I did cook, I wasn't about to bake four dozen cookies for me to eat by myself. Oh, I know, there were guys next door that would have polished them off for me, but that is another blog post entirely! I do remember making Daniel a cake for his birthday when we were first engaged, but even that wasn't really baking. That was just a sorry mix! Anyway, I digress. I would often dream about the time when I would have my own kitchen, with all the staples that I had at my disposal at my parent's house. I knew that with a few ingredients I could go to the cabinet at any time and make chocolate chip cookies. It caused me a great deal of stress to think that I really couldn't cook in my temporary apartment like I had at home, or like I really wanted to.

Today when I got home from work, I had a bit of energy and decided that I needed to use up the blackened bananas and make banana bread. Then I though about the fresh raspberry jam my mom made over the weekend and how divine that would be with homemade bread. I got to work right away, made the bread dough and set it to rise while the banana bread baked. As I started to put away the ingredients back into the cupboard, I looked at my hand and it was holding a box of baking soda. All of a sudden it hit me. I had my own kitchen. In fact, I've had my own kitchen for many years now. I have baking soda in my cupboard, and a couple of boxes downstairs in the storage room. I have also reached that pinnacle of being in a place I remember my mom being; I have supplies. I have staples. I can make chocolate chip cookies anytime I want! I don't have to worry about invading anyone else's space. I have at least three other mouths to help me devour the cookies, warm from the oven. I can even take some to neighbors if I so desire!

Why is a box of baking soda such a status symbol? I'm not sure. All I know is that there is a small sense of security now that was always lacking in my temporary apartments during college. Is that orange box of soda what makes a house a home? I guess it is if your house is filled with the smells of baking banana bread and the moist yeasty scent of rising dough.

1 Lovely Scribbles to Me:

Terresa said...

yum, I love banana bread. I made to huge cookie pan sized batches a few weeks ago for our YW. Delish! I like throwing Ghiradelli chocolate chips in, too.

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