The Kitchen Counter

She is at the counter in the kitchen, kneading dough. Christmas is on its way and she is in the midst of preparing. Her apron, attached at her waist, is covered in flour and sugar and all of those tasty ingredients that comprise a Christmas sweet.

Her hair is done yet wisps of strands fall on her forehead as she works the dough. She is lost in thought. I am a child and know on some level that I can only stand and watch. I instinctively know that I shouldn’t disturb her.

The oven has warmed up the house and the aroma of Christmas billows out all around us, the sweet smells of chocolate and nuts, creams and fillings that line the counter where she works.

She carries on as though nobody is there and yet the house is filled with the activity of my siblings and father and yet she is alone in her kitchen. She is conjuring up delicacies for all of us to enjoy. She is at peace here with her wooden spoons, her bowls, her mixer, her measuring cups and spoons. Surrounded by ingredients rich in taste and flavor: butter and eggs and flour and sugar, milk and cream and chocolate and caramel and coconut.

Lines of cookie sheets spread out over the length of counters and tables; everywhere you look in this tiny little kitchen there is a sign of Christmas. Shortbreads and squares, cheese straws and sausage rolls, a continuous barrage of goodies pops out of the oven.

She stops every now and then and has a coffee and a smoke sitting at the dining room table, one leg draped over the other. As she gazes out the window the smoke wafts up around her and the smell of cigarettes and chocolate, of coffee and of her still to this day remind me of Christmases past when things seemed so simple.

But I know that nothing ever is simple. She suffered too and felt the pain of many hurts in her life and always told me that when she felt sad she would bake. It relaxed her she said.

While she worked in her kitchen one could see she was at peace; nothing else mattered but the slow even cooking of pies – apple and blueberry, rhubarb and peach, and strawberry. Her hands kneading the dough, with just the right amount of rolling using that big wooden rolling pin with its two red handles. Then she would ever so gently fix the dough in the pie plate. These steps took seconds for her to do one after another and then the pies went into the oven to bake, breathing out the almost magical and wondrous smells of cinnamon and nutmeg.

She is my mother and the memory of her is so vivid. I can picture her so clearly now at the kitchen counter, baking at Christmas, that it feels as if I could conjure her up much like she did those sweets and delicacies.

This time of year  brings me back to a time when our house was filled with the hustle and bustle of Christmas parties and people and of my mother preparing countless treats for days on end!

Each of those treats would find its way onto a table for someone to enjoy. Or my mother would use shirt boxes and fill each one with squares and cookies and candy all made by her hand with love. She would add for good measure her “Nuts and Bolts” and her roasted almonds. They would then be delivered to people my mother knew would enjoy a box of homemade Christmas  treats and sweets.

She loved her tiny kitchen and what she cooked there leaves me in awe even now after all these years. I think it was easy for her because it was “her” kitchen; she made it her own and she found peace and serenity there working the dough, kneading it on that small kitchen counter.

Christmas comes every year and with it come those vivid memories: the smells, the tastes, the feel of my mother lost in thought baking up a cornucopia of Christmas. The memory is almost as sweet.

Image Credits

Photo #1 “Christmas Baking 2009 with Keira” by miss 604. Creative Commons Flickr. Some rights reserved

Photo #2 “Bread Hands” by tango mceffrie. Creative Commons Flickr. Some rights reserved

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