I've always imagined this to be true.
In my mind's eye I can remember the kitchens of both my nanny and my grandma. Places where family gathered and good food was enjoyed by one and all. Places where conversation and laughter and quiet discussions took place. Interestingly, both kitchens were also the places of entry into the houses. In order to get to the rest of the house, you had to pass through/by the kitchen. The kitchen was the place where two of the strongest women I knew seemed to rule, with a spatula and a fry pan ... and so much more.
As a child we moved several times over the years. In each house, it seemed that the kitchen is the room that stands out. By moving so many times, it became ingrained that that was the room to get set up first. Living rooms, bedrooms, studies, etc ... they all had a place in the priority of packing and unpacking but the kitchen came both last and first. It was the last thing packed up and the first thing unpacked. In doing so there was a refuge, a place where food and strength could be found to continue. A place where we could gather, to take a break from the chaos of boxes and scattered belongings made each move a tedious, tiresome chore. The warm heart of the kitchen that would become the gathering place for evening dinners, Saturday breakfast, Sunday lunch ... the gathering place for family.
As I moved out and on my own, I will admit that in each place I have lived ... apartment, duplex, condo, even dorm room (cause with a tiny crockpot & hotpot, you CAN create a tiny kitchen area in your room) ... I have attempted to continue the tradition of making the kitchen a central point. I enjoy cooking and sharing, particularly for family and friends. I love to indulge in my delight of small appliances. I try new recipes and recycle old ones. In each home I made, I tried to emulate the lessons I had learned in turning my kitchen from just another room into a place of welcoming warmth where family and friends could gather for good food and company, where little girlies could learn the art of cooking, where I could just be me.
While I have comfy spots throughout my home and while I find myself always busy when I am in the kitchen, I find that it also is the room that can relax me the best.
If I am frustrated or angry, I can soothe and lose myself in the blending of spices and ingredients, in the creating of something good. I can relax myself in the monotony of washing the dishes by hand. I can tickle myself silly by finding a new appliance in my favorite color. I can delight in talking with my small pup, who is ever vigilant lest I let a tidbit hit the floor.
My little kitchen has always seemed to be true to the saying ... it is the heart of my home.
Yet.
In October 2013, I had a fire that ended up taking my home and the life of my pupper. While both the Fire Marshal and the insurance investigator couldn't 100% guarantee the originating source, it was thought to be an electrical outlet in the kitchen, which was a total loss. While we were able to several things throughout the house, the kitchen was a different matter.
My heart was a different matter.
My heart was damaged, seemingly irreparable.
I was at a loss of where to start ... of what to do ... of where to go.
God blesses us in times of need and through the generosity of kind friends and unfailing family, I began to put my world back together.
Starting with a new home ... a new puppy ... and a new kitchen.
Some few things I was able to salvage. Some things I was able to replace. Some things are gone forever but new things have taken their place. But I have learned that these are just that ... things. It's not the items in the kitchen that make it the heart of the home. It's the people and the love that make their way in and out, stopping for a meal, passing through and grabbing a snack.
It is God's blessing of the room to provide sustenance, to provide warmth, to provide a safe respite for family and friends.
I give thanks for my new little home and for the kitchen that is at it's heart.
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