The kitchen is a small cozy place with memories (good and bad) that almost add color to the air in there. At a small wooden table is a plate with a thick slice of buttered bread next to it is a large steaming coffee mug. There are no edges on this table, only soft rounded corners. Round and softened made that way by the passage of time as well as the many coats of thick white enamel paint that covered to legs and the top.
The walls in this small environment are covered with shelves, pegs and other means and ways to store or hang the daily tools of the kitchen. Papa arrives and looks at all of it. He stands there as if conducting an inspection. Mama stands rigid by the sink and beams her pride at him. Her face clearly says, This is my kitchen and my place and it is here that I excel. She is correct.
Moments later, Papa is sitting and dipping the thick slabs of buttered bread into the coffee and bringing them carelessly to his mouth. When he leaves, there is coffee and pieces of bread on the table and his clean tee-shirt is stained. This is a normal thing. Mama looks at the table and at him and is comforted by the mess. It is their existence and their routine. To not be that way would be to invite havoc into their private sanity.
There is a wondrous aroma in this room this kitchen. An aroma spiced by the many meals made in the past and perhaps the aroma of those waiting to be prepared. The air is filled with individual aromas of the wonderful fish of three years ago and the goat stew that she made last week. It is a mingling a stew of history that appeals to only one of the senses. Perhaps two if memory is counted.
It is Mamas kitchen. The lovely smells look like her. She is at peace here.
In the corner of the window sill is an old rusty knife. She looks at it. Her watering eyes close.