In the kitchen of our 46 year old one-storey ranch style home in Tanglewood, Houston, Texas, which stands next to, and across from, the other two small homes on a block of eight brand new grand homes, I am sitting eating my lunch at our old breakfast table. It is 30 inches wide and 50 inches long, just barely room for Carl, my late husband, at one end, our oldest, Elaine, at the other end, Carol and Dale on one side, and I on the other. We five broke bread together for hundreds of meals. The table was like a heart sending its blood around to all the rooms, bringing the children and my husband and me to the kitchen for nurturing, solving problems and listening to Carl tell stories of Zuzu, who was a little boy not unlike Carl when he was a boy.
The smell of stew fills the room. Elaine has come to lunch because I was having stew, her favorite. She helps her plate to meat, potatoes, onions, carrots and rich gravy, redolent of bay, basil, garlic and allspice. She takes a bite; she dips her bread in the gravy. She moans with pleasure. (I was afraid she was going to weep from happiness.) She said, “Oh, thank you for making it for me. It’s so good.” I smiled. After all these years I still knew each child’s favorite food.
She said, “I wish Carly (she always called her father, Carly) were here to tell us
a Zuzu story. The one I like best was about the Crazy Kid running to Zuzu’s house
from the baseball diamond to get Zuzu a plate of food!” The table has only a vase of flowers, but it holds a multitude of memories. The
only sound comes from the refrigerator motor. The stew is simmering in the old iron pot as old as the kitchen.
Carol lives nearby. She is too busy to come to lunch, but she will come by later
to get her share of stew to take home to her family. Dale lives three hours by car. He comes often, and when he reaches my back
door he says, “All my cares just melt away when I get here.” Carl was the kind of father who was always home except when he had to travel
on business, and he took an early retirement which gave him about 25 years extra of sitting at our old gray table. One day he confided, “I have never sat down to a bad meal in this kitchen!”I don’t know how much longer I and my kitchen will be here. When I leave and my home is torn down like all the rest of the one-story homes, the loving spirit that filled its doors will remain with the loving, nurturing family members.