A friend pointed out when we met recently that there’s something about Russian women and their kitchens. They’re happiest in them.
I was like, “Wait, I’m like that!” Okay, I’m half Ukrainian, not Russian, but when it comes down to it, there’s nowhere else on earth I’d rather be than home on a Saturday, cooking up something for a bunch of friends for dinner.
I have a great kitchen, even though it’s not so fancy. There’s no sub-Zero or Viking range. I don’t have high-end faucets, and the lamp over the kitchen table is actually pretty ugly in a 1980s kind of way.
But it’s still a great kitchen. Big, for starters. I’ve got the kind of table that’s as perfect for arts and crafts as it is for casual suppers. The view is fantastic over the hills, and there’s loads of counter space.
In the year since we’ve lived here I’ve made:
homemade pizzas on Fridays
a Valentine’s supper for friends with fried oysters that I still dream about (must make those again)
a birthday supper for my son, for, oh, about twenty-five family members and a few more friends
An Indian supper for my dad’s birthday
salads for potlucks, pancakes for Shrove Tuesday, cookies with my kids, birthday muffins for a one daughter’s class, and Christmas dinner.
My husband and I have discussed finances at the table, watched our kids argue and make up, then argued and made up ourselves. We’ve stepped around each other in the mornings, and drunk wine in the evenings, laughed with friends, and gathered with family.
Can you tell the kitchen is my world? My fortieth birthday is coming up soon, and for a while I thought maybe I’d have some blow-out party, but you know, that’s just not me. Instead, I’m thinking of hanging lights in the back yard, draping some pretty tulle around, and hosting a long and relaxed, garden supper. Cooked by yours truly, of course, and probably including a few of those fried oysters. Bon Vivant, folks.