Memories of a Mother and Her Kitchen Ask people what their favorite room in their home was as a child, and they will most often answer, “The kitchen.” That may surprise some people, especially if you are under 45 years old. I understand why they view the kitchen as the heart of the home. Here the meals were spread, here the family conversations were held and from here Mom pretty well ran the household. In the kitchen was the kitchen table. For many years I had no idea what a dining room table was because we had no dining room. Around that table gathered the family with high expectations of good food and conversations. Events or news of the day, accomplishments or disappointments were not allowed to go unspoken. Winters in Kansas could be brutal at times and I remember the kitchen as the place to warm up. The warmth of the range or the oven and the warmth of love hovering over the room made it unmistakably clear this was the place to be. Mom usually made some hot tea or cocoa to help. Cold mornings always found the kitchen warm and inviting; breakfast only moments away when I entered. It seemed like most major family news was shared in the kitchen around that drop-leaf table. The ups-and-downs of semester grades, making the basketball team, dad’s business winning contracts year after year; the death of an aunt or uncle; the birth of grandkids, nieces and nephews; how we would have to save to afford college and mom’s battles with cancer over the years. When I took my fiancé home to let mom and dad know we were going to be married, the four of us made our way into the kitchen for the news. Once again, over some form of home-baked good, big news was shared with those we loved the most. When dad died in 1972, I made my way back to Kansas to our home. That night I met mom in the kitchen, sitting at the table. After the hugs and tears, she graciously offered me fresh crumb cake and coffee. This was her throne room where she greeted members of the family in, what she considered her intimate setting. Friends and other guests were greeted, in the days to come, in the living room and things were a bit more formal there. I don’t know why, but we were a back-door family. When we entered our home, it was always through the back door and immediately into the kitchen. Only visitors came through the front door. Coming home from school, a day of summer activities or from the prom, I always entered the kitchen first. Mom had always laid something out as a snack or there was a note on the table. I will forever remember the hearth of our home as the kitchen; the warm, loving place where a woman who knew what she was about, held the reins to the household and our hearts.