The kitchen at my parents’ house is never closed. My family is ten strong, and with that many stomachs to fill, it’s hardly a surprise. Paati, my grandmother, is the best cook. She learned from her grandmother when she was ten years old, and it’s her favorite thing in the world. Paati and the kitchen are irrevocably intertwined — her profile picture in my mental filing cabinet is her, all of 4’9, standing behind the stove on the left side of the kitchen island, stirring a large, steel pot with a long, wooden spoon.
She never tires of it, so the kitchen is my family’s place of congregation. When we were small, my siblings and I sat on the black granite countertops, outside the range of oils and knives. My grandfather and uncle hover at the outskirts where the kitchen mats met orange hardwood, offering unfounded advice about salt and spice. My dad scrounges for snacks in the white cabinets by the fridge. My mom and aunt are Paati’s elves, readying ingredients for her to make magic.There’s a groove on the underside of the island where I carved my name, and a spot on the mats to avoid where a stubborn sticky residue remains. It is always brightly lit, and warm from the fires, and rich with aromas. The sounds of people talking over the clanging of pots and pans is a constant comfort. I go to my house’s kitchen to be at home.
The kitchen in my college apartment was a slip of space, two countertops about three feet apart, and just four people to feed. We did our own groceries, crammed it into our two assigned cabinets and a quadrant of the fridge, and cooked for ourselves. I was always discomfited, intruding on someone else’s space and time in a place sacred to my idea of togetherness. It’s lonely, to make food and eat on your own every day. It’s lonelier still, to be in the kitchen together, two people boiling pasta at the stove, another person’s freezer meal in the oven below. We rarely spoke, efficient and lifeless. Physical traces of being there — dry mozzarella on the greenish tiles, rings of syrup on the greenish counter — but no memories except an aftertaste of resentment.
My kitchen in Baltimore is my favorite yet. I am biased, perhaps, partial to the way my life finally feels fully colored. I chop tomatoes at the counter, my roommate hip-checking me to grab a fork for her ramen. Our friends talk at us over the bar top from their post at the dining table or the recline of my couch. I hand someone a plate, and they eat standing by the fridge, blocking passage in and out of the kitchen. When it feels like all I am is anxiety, wrath, and an existential dread, I am reminded that I am actually a kaleidoscope of these people who see me and whom I see in return. It’s joy, whimsy, and a lot of Paati’s food, I think, that holds the world together.
It’s the vitality of the hearth.
Related Content
- Homesickness is Cured in the Kitchen
- The Power of Food
- A New Student’s Guide to Baltimore Cafes
- Best Authentic Chinese Food in Baltimore: Where to Go and What to Order
Want to read more from the Johns Hopkins School of Medicine? Subscribe to the Biomedical Odyssey blog and receive new posts directly in your inbox.