I can't remember what color the cabinets were (I think they were oak), but I can tell you exactly what the floor looked like. It was this horrid green speckled linoleum-type stuff. It lasted forever, because most things did back then. The kitchen shared the same large space as the dining area, which had a big window overlooking the deck and backyard. Originally, the backyard had no fence, and led into a field, which led back to woods and train tracks, and then further back was farmland and a lake. When I was growing up, there was a fence, the same field and woods were there, and the neighbors had mowed a section of the field, which we pretended was a baseball field, and used it as such. We could always see storms rolling in out that window, or the big picture window in the front room. Nowadays, that field is gone and has been replaced by a housing development. I try not to think about it, as it makes me sad.
The kitchen was always a great room in our house, mostly because my mom is a mean cook. Nothing was ever fat free, or even reduced fat. With a family of six, we were very familiar with casseroles. Lots of casseroles. There's so much that can be made with Campbell's cream of mushroom soup. You can pretty much whip up any meal with that one little can. Our pantry was stocked with canned peaches, the freezer with blueberries, green beans and venison. We picked or killed it, then we canned and stored it. Fish fries from catches at the lake were a treat. But the thing I liked the best was the stuff that got baked in that oven. Particularly bread. I love bread. I blame it on being Dutch. We love bread...and cheese. The usuals in our house were zucchini (with zucchini from our garden), banana, cinnamon, wheat, white, and apple breads, strudels, pies, crisps, muffins, etc. Yum. And because I was mommy's little helper, I was in there all the time, kneading, rolling, latticing, pinching, watching dough rise. I learned it all, and loved it. (I loved eating it too.)
Now as an adult, I find myself trying to replicate all the things I loved, so I can share them with my friends and family. My mom passed down her banana bread recipe to me, and that is where this hugely long pre-story is landing us.
Tonight I came home at 11:30pm after work, and went where I go every night as soon as I walk in the door...the kitchen. I clean the kitchen every night. I clean dishes I haven't eaten off of, pots and pans I didn't use, counters I didn't prep on, the stove I didn't cook on. I load and unload the dishwasher, and sometimes cook myself a meal, or in tonight's case, work on making something for the family. I do this for anywhere from a half hour to an hour every night. This has become my nightly routine.
A request was made earlier in the week for more banana bread, so bananas were purchased and have been sitting on the counter ripening for the last several days. I started cleaning tonight, and got done as much as I could with the space I had, then decided the bananas were the perfect shade of brown to make the bread. They must be brown of course, not rotted brown, just brown. They have the best flavor and make the best bread. I wouldn't dare use a yellow banana in my bread. Save those for eating straight. Use the "bad ones" for the bread!
Why I forget that a blender is required for this recipe is beyond me. For some reason, in my mind, I can use the hand mixer. You cannot use the hand mixer for this recipe. It doesn't come out right. Nobody wants lumpy bananas in the bread. Ewe. Well tonight, as everyone in my household lay cozily sleeping in their beds, I had a mental debate about using the blender. My blender is really loud. Ninja blenders are great at cutting things, but unlike ninjas, they are not quiet. There might as well be a plane taking off in the kitchen. I knew running it would wake them all up, so I decided to just try the hand mixer. I mixed...and mixed...and mixed. Not happening. Lumps.
What was I going to do? I could save it for the morning, and just stick it in the fridge for now, but I didn't want to ruin the mix by putting it in there. Ahah!! Bright idea! There's an outlet in the pantry!!
My pantry is located at the end of my kitchen. It has a folding door to close it off...and it has an outlet. Perfect. I grab the blender, plug it in, scrape the contents from the bowl into the blender, walk into my closet-sized pantry, close myself in, and turn on the blender.
As I'm standing there for the 20 seconds it takes to blend my now pre-mixed egg, butter and banana concoction, I start laughing at the irony that I am, in fact, closed into my tiny pantry, with my blender on the floor, trying to keep the noise from waking everyone up. This is what my life has come to. Pantry closet banana bread.
I finish making the bread and pop it into the oven, making use of the next hour and fifteen minutes to check up on my latest cynical rant on Facebook and respond to everyone commiserating with me about it, encouraging me to get over it, or shaking their head while reading yet another of my dramatic, snarky takes on singleness. This is also my life. While I'm doing all this, I start smelling the bread. Oh, glorious bread. It's making my mouth water. This hour and a half can't move quickly enough. My belly is grumbling. "Feed me now!"
My kitchen is now the rest of the way clean. I have finished cleaning up the messes of the day, and now have cleaned up the flour explosion that happened, and my own mess from baking. When I cook, it's obvious. I dirty a ton of dishes, and somehow every surface. Flour was on the counter opposite of the one I was working on, and stuck in a corner no less. How did it get there? Magic, I guess.
The bread is finally done, and of course it must be tested. Duh! So I carve out a piece. The ends are the best, nice and crispy on the edges, then sweet, warm, tasty goodness in the middle. This is the way all bread should be. And then butter.
The dog is now following me around, hoping I'll trip (see her in the picture above), or drop something so she can get a piece of the action, and I sit down with my plate of heaven and bite into my own blessed creation. Yum.
The whole time I'm cleaning, cooking, Facebooking, then eating (it is nearing 3am as I write this), I'm thinking about the irony of my life. The last six weeks have been somewhat of a blur. My house has expanded by one person, a teenage person no less. My personal space has shrunk (diminished, really), my bank account has followed suit, as well as my free time, and the amount of sleeping hours I used to enjoy. My grey hairs have increased, however, as well as my stress level, the amount of nerves that people sit on every day while I try not to lose it, my chore load, as well as my knowledge of current slang terms and acronyms.
As I cleaned up the kitchen for the 5th time this week, wiped off the same counters I did last night, cleaned out the crockpot for what seemed like the bajillionth time, I tried not to be angry about having to take care of the people in my house, or the house itself. I tried not to be resentful or annoyed, or selfish, in feeling like I'm the only one that cleans anything up. Does anyone see this mess? How hard is it to bring your dishes from the living room to the kitchen? Doesn't anyone feel the dirty floors? And what about that pile of clean, folded clothes that has been sitting on the couch for the last five days, that I have asked her to take care of...for the last five days, that has been annoying me...for the last five days? I came home tonight, and there it is again, that stupid pile of clothes, those dirty dishes lying around, the same messes to clean up.
I should be grateful. I should be joyful. I should be a lot of things. Sometimes it's a real struggle to be them.
I do a lot of my best thinking when I'm cleaning. I hate to say it, but cleaning is a stress reliever for me. Sure, it's tiring and I hate doing it, but I feel relieved when it's done. It's like going to the gym, for me. I go in stressed, and come out with a clear head and some direction. Tonight was no different. As I cleaned my kitchen I worked through all those emotions I was feeling in doing so. I stood there at my sink thinking about the things I had asked God for, and how he had given so many of them to me, yet I hadn't noticed, and now was ungrateful for them. How selfish.
It was a tough pill to swallow. The answers to my prayers had come to me in ways I didn't expect, in ways that maybe I didn't appreciate as such, but they came. And now I have the choice to be grateful even when I'm tired, to be thankful even when I don't feel like it, and to appreciate the life I have, even if it's not always pretty and clean and just the way I expected it would be. This is my life, after all. I get to choose my actions and reactions.
So there I was, now with a plate full of yumminess about to enter my belly, the kitchen cleaned, my best thinking complete for the night, my anger and stress turned into resolved gratefulness towards the blessings I have been given. I turned on some country on my iTunes Radio, grabbed a fork, and dug into that bread...that sweet pantry closet banana bread.
And then I wrote about it. :)
Still practicing...
