A home is made in the kitchen

Claudette, having a new in-law/outlaw travail to report, called the other day.

Before she began her latest in the ongoing outlaw saga, she asked, as many of my friends often do when I answer the phone, “Whatta ya doin’?”

I replied, as I often do, in complete detail of whatever I’m doing when the phone rings. “I’m getting all my stuff together to organize my recipes. I ordered the prettiest album, which just arrived. It has sticky pages and vinyl sheets so I can put recipes in there that I’ve cut out. That way, they’re not poking out of my recipe book nor do they have to be copied into the book.”

I had a beautiful red hutch custom-made and in ordering it, I had specified that there should be a roll-down door in one area. That’s where I store all of my cooking books, many of them gifts from excellent Southern cooks.

It took Claudette a moment to find her tongue. Finally, she spoke. “I’m sorry. Say that again. You’re doing what?”

“Organizing my recipes.” The moment I said it again, I, too, was taken aback.

She then said exactly what I was thinking to myself. “What in the sam hill has gotten into you? Organizing recipes? Is the end of time nearing? If it is, please tell me because I’ve got some in-laws that need to find salvation. Then, there’s a couple who can just go on to meet their creator – Satan.”

Claudette was right. On a day when there was business to be done, organizing recipes has climbed to the top of my priority list.

Blame it, at least partially, on the stove.

When I built my new house, I brought a state-of-the-art stove. It has twin ovens, including convection, five eyes and dual fuel control. I was so tickled that when it arrived, I immediately set out cooking on a quite regular basis. Homemade biscuits, gravies, pies and casseroles – a staple of Southern womanhood – steam regularly from my stove. Extremely unusual for me.

“What has gotten into you?” my sister asked, incredulous over the Betty Crocker clone that has emerged. I shrugged. At the time, I wasn’t sure but I knew that it felt right and that I liked it.

Eventually, I figured it out.

In a house, love is made in the bedroom, life is made in the den, peace is made on the porch but a home is made in the kitchen. It is something that Southern women know innately. That’s why food and hospitality lie at the core of our being.

The kitchen has become my favorite room.

“It should be,” declared my friend Kim, who designed the gorgeous treatments for the bay window and door. “This is a perfect cottage-style kitchen.”

I wanted the room to feel cozy so that friends and family would plop down in a chair at the island and talk while I cook. My vision was to create a gathering place of warmth, love and hospitality enhanced by cheery gingham and painted cabinets. The plan has worked. The most intimate conversations have taken place in that kitchen.

The other night after a hot, delicious supper of spicy black-eyed peas, fried okra, green beans, macaroni and cheese, rice, cornbread with caramelized onions and coconut pie, Claudette was helping to clean the kitchen. She scrubbed pots while I cleaned the stove. She turned from the sink and watched for a moment as I meticulously shined the steel.

She shook her head and chuckled. “Boy, you really do love that stove, don’t you?”

I smiled. She’s right. I do love that stove. After all, it’s what has made my house into a home.