Write about a kitchen.

Every Monday Darien Gee, who is a writer and teacher of micro memoir, posts a writing prompt for “Micro Mondays”. I’ve decided to start doing them- maybe not every week, but whenever I need a prompt. Micro memoir is a new idea to me but the term seems to be better fit for what I like to write, as opposed to the big, vague umbrella of poetry. I like to write, and read, little moments- brief, glowing fragments of life that are often sufficient on their own and don’t need a wider context. She says to set a timer for 10 minutes, I went a little past that.

Write about a kitchen.

There’s really only one kitchen, the kitchen in the house where I grew up, but I’ve written about that kitchen before. Of course there have been others, many, throughout the course of my adult life.

Like the kitchen in the Normal Ave house, where I lived from age 21-24, with my friend Tyana and a rotation of other roommates. The kitchen where Ulysses the cat (black and round as a bowling ball) would jump up onto the counter, then to the top of the fridge to eat from his food bowl.

The small, square, wobbly table by the window where I sat sometimes and ate with Tyana or Katie or Jeff (from Tennessee) who taught me how to make grits, and said “milk” like “melk,” but just as often I sat there alone in the mornings eating fried eggs on toast with red salsa, with a fork taking little bites so that it would last longer, so that often it was cold by the time I was done.

The dish rack was always piled high with clean, dry dishes waiting to be put away, leaning against the fridge like an avalanche waiting to happen. I only liked putting them away when someone was there to talk to while I did it, to make it less of a chore. On the cupboard doors were our pages of quotes from friends that we kept adding to, and also Tyana’s page titled “Moments of Whimsy.” She was always big on whimsy.

Above the stove were sagging shelves where we kept our jars of rice, lentils, dried beans, spices. Ryan Grow, who I dated casually for a while, marveled at it once, as he lived on takeout and frozen dinners. There may have been a window over the sink, looking out into the backyard, but I don’t quite remember.

I remember wandering into the kitchen the next morning after a party or potluck and dirty dishes and beer bottles cluttering every surface. I remember one night while making dinner, Katie in the kitchen singing passionately along to Jeff Buckley’s “Lover, You Should’ve Come Over” in a way that locked into my memory forever.

The layout of the house was circular, like the house I grew up in- two ways in and out of the kitchen. One way led to the living room, a low partition between with potted plants, the other way led to a funny little in between room that Tyana used as an office or kind of a foyer to her room in the back of the house.

I remember cooking “root roast” with Tyana, which we always said in a low voice while “raising the roof” with our hands, and also the time we left some baked fish in the oven for days on accident, wondering what the smell was. Tyana was always leaving bowls of food half eaten with the fork still in it on the counter or in the fridge, always dashing off mid-meal like a hummingbird.

This was the kitchen where I cooked breakfast for Benny after he stayed the night, The Be Good Tanyas playing on the living room stereo. I gave him veggies to chop, him puzzling over how to unwrap garlic, how to handle a zucchini. He sliced the palm of his hand cubing potatoes and nearly fainted. It was the first time I realized how soft and tender he was, and in need of teaching and comfort.

I looked for the pictures of the kitchen and could only find these, where the kitchen is in the background. I believe I’m dressed up for a birthday scavenger hunt put on by my friends Emma and Becky.

Emma and Becky: