People are like rooms in a house. Some are family rooms with lots of company, a whopping entertainment center and a really comfy couch. There are those who are offices or libraries where it is quiet and contemplative. Few will admit to being closets, on good terms with the family skeletons. Many are cave dwellers, cellars or garages.
I am the kitchen, the warm place of informal conversation, practical activity, nurturance. At some point, everyone comes to the kitchen; it’s the heart of the home. It’s for visiting, jokes, and secrets. It’s where tea is made and served. It’s where people work together. It’s a quiet place after the work of the day is done.
This is a place where you will hear stories. Some are funny, the totally unexpected fallout of having a house full of teenagers. Some are tragic (though tempered from reflection), also an upshot of having a houseful of teenagers. One of my alter egos, the hippie protester who pops in for tea occasionally will talk about politics or issues of social justice. The buddhist in me may stop in and talk about the wonders of the universe. Post-punk rock and roll chick may come by.
But most of all, the cook will be in residence feeding everyone in sight.
