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.