The beautiful kitchens in our house tours tend to be on their best behavior. Crumbs are cleared. The cookbooks are neatly stacked. All the chairs are pushed in.
Published in the spring issue of Gastronomica, Yossi Gutmann's photo essay of his father's Tel Aviv kitchen shows a very different kind of kitchen and tells a different kind of story. We loved it for this very difference.
I was particularly arrested by this image of a crowded counter top.
The wax-splattered menorah in the bottom corner and the thick glasses (probably long forgotten) in the middle ground tell as much of a story as Gutmann's description of his father's breakfast: "...one small cucumber, a hard-boiled egg, five tablespoons of low-fat yogurt mixed with cottage cheese."
We've spent time thinking about our kitchens and what they say about us. And we pay tribute to the skills and recipes our parents taught us. But reading this article and looking at the pictures made me think about our parents' kitchens and what they might say about them.
In my mind, my parents' kitchen is a sun-splashed table covered entirely with newspapers, letters, books, and hand-written notes. A pair of binoculars to watch the birds and African violets on the window sill. The dishes are always done.
What are your memories of your parents' kitchens?
For a free download of Guttman's photo essay, visit Gastronomica.com.
Related: Have You Ever Toured a Farm?
(All images by Yossi Gutmann, 2007)
Copyright © 2008 Apartment Therapy
Clearly there are no alpha male kitties in the lives of the paper-towel-less - that is way too funky an emission to entrust to cloth! the residue would last forever. I just make sure it is a high percentage if not 100 percent post-consumer fiber being used. Also helpful if you have a sweet, aging kitty with a delicate tummy who lets you know when she has to puke in the middle of the night, to have a roll handy there as well. I also love my trader joes rags and dishtowels.
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After I was born, my parents settled into the house they still have, and I have hundreds of memories of this kitchen. There's the retro (read: old) decor that included laminate countertops embedded with glitter; the California sunlight streaming in through the little window; the porcelain sink where the bright white had been scrubbed down to the black iron; the kitchen table my dad had made out of the dining room table, which he'd also made; piles of fresh froduce from our garden on the countertop and the chest freezer (we had three freezers, including the upright in the garage); pounds and pounds of frozen meat to feed the seven of us; mom's lazy susan spice rack that included more exotic spices than traditional American ones; the old-school high chair where each of my brothers and I had once eaten our meals, and which contrasted the folding metal chairs my parents liked so much. I can see, smell, feel, and taste this kitchen without even having to close my eyes!
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