The midland journal., 1943-03-12

| enQ CnaC the prOJectS Will De Du1lC
in the shortest possible time"
| About Poached Eggs
And the Awe of a Kitchen
Only recently, when my wife was
away for some time, did learn to
poach an egg, and in so doing, at
last lost my awe of the kitchen. It
was my early training that gave me
that awe. Neither my grandmother
nor my mother would permit "men
in the kitchen" unless they had spe-
cific masculine business there.
''No, you sit down in the corner
and read the paper to me. can
dry the dishes quicker without you
helping. And there won't be any
streaks on the cups"
OF course, there were times when
| mans presence was permitted.
Naturally, when he was allowed to
eat there or when the kindling had
to be brought in or the coal hod filled.
But even then, only when Milana,
the young Scandinavian giantess who
was the hired girl, was otherwise en-
| gagged.
When / was quite small, I was al
lowed to play in the kitchen when
traffic was light. But that was a
special privilege. The bare scrubbed
floor was excellent for tops. And,
| of course, was that much nearer the
| cookies, and if I was present during
the early stages of cake-baking,
there were the odd pieces OF sweet
dough that I loved, and sometimes,
chance to click the pan" which
was not as unsanitary practice as
| it sounds. 1t really meant chance
to scrape out the dish after the FROST
ing had been mixed.
But there were bitter memories
of cake-baking time, too, the stimu-
liant for which added to my respect
for the kitchen. Once, coming back
from school, / leapt into the room
and started to stamp the crisp snow
from my rubbers. There was (oh
culpa meaD cake in the oven. 1t
fell and soon my pride followed for
| / was placed in most embarrass-
ing position - a horizontal position
/ might add.
Other Reasons
There were many reasons why my
love of the kitchen was mingled with
| respect that has not quite gone
even though the graceful curves of
the range whose covers could glow
| like a summer sun and whose ISM
| glass eyes beamed so cheerfully, has
long since gone. The kitchen table
with it's white oilcloth, with only a
/! few scars at one end-another why
men weren't allowed in these sacred
precincts-"N who has been cut
ting bread without the breadboard
again?"
l am not, of course, describing the
spacious room Of the farmhouse
when talk about my kitchen men,
cries for I lived "in town" although
the orchard began just beyond the
back fence and fields, an easy walk
beyond the place where the side
walk became two parallel planks
with a space between (perilous to
maneuver on bicycle) and then
ended in a pathway.
No, mine was not the spacious
kitchen where half dozen could
eat at once. But it took care Of the
family with little crowding on Sum
day nights around the remnants of
last nights baked beans and the 9TH
| er delicious leftoverS.
Souvenir Calendar
We had room for the little rag rug
under the rocker by the window and
the Journals bright souvenir" cal
endar adorned the wall-that "annu-
al gift" Of the newsboy Is about the
only thing left in today's white kitch-
en- where you can't tell the sink
from the gas stove or the cabinet
or the ice box. That and the dotted
swiss curtains in my kitchen.
| But you may break, you may shat
ter my dream if you will, when you
open one shiny door, the scent OF
the spices cling about it still. have
lost my awe of the kitchen but low
ing memories linger and latterly it
has, in a measure, increased my
self-respect. At long last, no one to
stop me, I have learned to poach
; an egg.