Stuck in the kitchen

I can’t seem to get out of the kitchen this summer.

Yes, I realize how stereotypical that sounds: Mom’s stuck in the kitchen. Not only have I always resisted the cliché of being the predominant meal producer in the family; I don’t even like the domestic cliché of “kitchen as the heart of the home.” Although our kitchen is very much designed in the current trend of kitchen-as-gathering-place, I often insist when friends come over that we sit somewhere else for drinks and appetizers, because standing behind the counter while friends eat and drink always makes me feel like Sam the Bartender.

So it’s frustrating that I seem unable to leave the boundaries of that particular room these days. With the kids home full-time for summer vacation – their choice that they did not want to do camp or regular classes, and our out-of-town trip doesn’t come for several more weeks – I feel like I’m in the kitchen hour after hour.

It starts in the morning as soon as I return from my run. The kids drift down to the kitchen one at a time; both want something different for breakfast. The dog needs to be fed too. I give the dog her scoop of kibble and put bagels or toast in the toaster for the kids; then I slice a peach for myself and try to make it across the room to the coffee grinder without getting distracted by other tasks, reminding myself frequently of the oxygen-mask rule of parenting: secure your own airflow before you help other passengers. Meaning, in this case, I can’t help everyone else if I’m ravenous myself.

And then as soon as I’ve provided sustenance for pet, children and self, it’s out to the barnyard to let the sheep out to pasture; they’re hungry too after twelve hours in their enclosure, safe from coyotes but far from fresh grazing.

Feed, then clean up, then up to my writing desk for three hours – which in the summer is the extent of my work day -- and then it’s time to make lunch. Again, both kids have different requests. Again, I farm out to them what I can – fetch this from the fridge; put that in the sink; someone please let the dog out; someone please let the dog in – but it’s still me orchestrating the whole thing. With a minor pang of despair I watch the kids take their last bites of lunch just as I begin making my own, knowing sitting down to eat a sandwich and read the paper is once again a bit of a pipe dream now that they’re done eating and will be eager to start our afternoon activities, which usually begin with leaving the house to go swimming.

Some evenings dinner is traditional sit-down; four out of seven, though, Tim and Rick are at evening baseball games, Tim as player and Rick as coach. That means Tim needs a hearty snack before he leaves for the game, and then once they’re gone I start thinking about what I can make that Holly and I can enjoy at a regular dinner hour but that Rick and Tim can reheat when they get home.

On the weekends, I all but insist we go out at least once. “I need just one meal a week when it’s not my responsibility to figure out what anyone else should eat,” I implore my family. So we go out, and I make them decide where to go; I don’t even want to think about menus on the night we go out. I just want someone else to take care of it.

I’m learning this summer to take a Zen attitude, to see the beauty in the ceaseless cycle of cooking and serving and cleaning. I revel in the sound of the disposal and the dishwasher, knowing that the appliances are working on my behalf. I sweep the kitchen floor lovingly, telling myself it’s good to see the crumbs collecting together in the dustpan and knowing the broom leaves cleanliness in its wake. I admit, I’ve even been feeling secretly enthusiastic about the new microfiber dishcloths I bought last week, because they leave our countertops so much shinier than the old, grease-saturated dishcloths did.

Feeding, serving, cleaning up the mess: the rituals of a smoothly functioning kitchen become a metaphor for a smoothly functioning family. And as I stick one last plate into the dishwasher and press “start” yet again, I remind myself to appreciate these rituals. Keeping the family fed is no small feat, and I’m happy to be able to do it.

But I should also be trying to teach the kids to do more kitchen chores. It’s important for them to learn these jobs, and it’s important for me to get a break. Maybe they’ll learn to see the Zen aspects of sweeping as well. It’s never too early to appreciate a shining floor.