This is the house my parents bought the year before I was born, so I'm lucky to return to the stability of walls that held me as a child. The one room that is gone, though, is the kitchen. When I was about eight years old, my mom and her team of worker bees took an axe to the original kitchen — small, chopped up into kitchen, breakfast nook, washroom and dining room — and built the room that now serves as the larger, brighter hearth of the home.
Arguably it is warmer and more comfortable, certainly for cooking. But that little girl in the photo above didn't need much space to learn to cook, nor did the generations of cooks before her. With her rear perched on the scratched Mexican tile counter, she learned how to mix and chop and fall in love with kitchen chemistry.
When I come home to my mother's kitchen, we cook a lot. I also get to request those comforting, childhood dishes that only an elder can replicate. Now, as a mother, coming home means sharing those taste memories with my own daughter, and thus the generational links begin forming their chain.
After the procession through the park, we returned to the house and lit the dining table's runner with the children's lanterns. I sat back and took in the energy of a dining room table filled as it's never been with small people, and felt thankful, days before turkey and stuffing, for the memories I have of this place and how they live on, long after the tile is smashed and replaced.
Where did you learn to cook? I'm collecting photographs of people in their childhood kitchens to use in a future piece. Please click here and send me yours. Please put "childhood kitchen" in the subject line, otherwise I will not receive your submission. By submitting your photograph you are granting us permission to use the photo in a piece to be published on TheKitchn.com
(Images: Karen Gillingham and Sara Kate Gilingham-Ryan)