As a little girl, I always dreamed of owning my own KitchenAid stand mixer. I swore that it would be the marker of my success—the moment I officially made it out of what I considered the kitchen “slums,” a place where mostly sallow, prepackaged dinners reigned—and into the land where all the rich housewives with no worries and no lack lived. My mind painted a vivid picture of my dream kitchen down to the beams of natural light spilling into the open space, the moldings on the floating cabinets with their wide faces, and a couple of lazy Susans on either corner of the kitchen, just because. There my gleaming appliance would stand, tall and polished amongst a score of marble, creaming, without end, softened butter and cups of sugar into wispy paste. My machine would exist to make my life effortlessly magical.
And there I’d be floating between counter and calendar, checking for when my next guest would arrive to sample from my stockpile of freshly baked goodies: dense pound cakes, caramel pretzel pies, soft snickerdoodles, and blood-red velvet sheet cakes topped with waves of cream cheese frosting wielded with one of those gangly spatulas that have the awkward bend. I would bake a sea of sugar around me—a perfect dream for the chunky-cheeked girl I was. I could go on, but for your sake (plus word-count limits), let’s just say it looked a lot like my face and body plastered onto a kitchen spread ripped from the pages of an金博宝188app网址magazine—here’s looking at you,AD.
Growing up in Florida, I’d sit wide-eyed at the edge of my bed and take in hours of Food Network episodes:Barefoot Contessa,Tyler’s Ultimate,Nigella Feasts,and even some of my least favorite shows like30 Minute MealsandSemi-Homemade with Sandra Lee,ones that felt practical, rushed, and dared to address frugality (the concept I came to escape). I took what I could get. I’d get lost in the elaborate displays, the fresh cuts of meat that fed four of my fathers, the vibrant spices and raw herbs, and of course the soothing voices of the hosts who never turned me away. There was always more than enough. It felt necessary to leave my kitchen for theirs as often as possible lest I be swallowed by the realities of my own.
My grandmother Big Ma’s kitchen felt less like #kitchengoals and more #smallworkinggarage—cloaked with cheerless beiges and browns, a single square window pulling in light from one corner, leaving the other half of the room in darkness. Nothing bright or ornamental. Things exist because they function. There’s an oil stain here and there, a wooden countertop stretching along the wall with hordes of obscure things sitting elbow to elbow. But the dinners that came out of that space were like quilts stitched from piecemeal fabric, lengthened to provide.
My Big Ma was brilliant and resourceful, every day turning a little into a lot. I remember being so impressed: “Big Ma the Scientist” rescuing the morning’s breakfast by using her baking powder trick to swell the scrambled eggs, resultantly feeding four extra kids. How I’d cringe watching Ina Garten on-screen, transferring her finished batters into her baking dishes without scraping every last bit over—always leaving ¼ cup of whatever it was at the bottom of her bowl to the birds. It was that contrast between our worlds and her negligence that annoyed and confused me; it was like loud static interrupting the broadcast and frying the display. Every time, without fail, that’s when I’d snap right out of my kitchen euphoria. But I always returned.
