Kitchen Nostalgia

For anyone who has spent time in Spanish homes, I'm sure you've realized that the kitchens are teeny tiny. There is no room to park yourself on a counter, to sit down on a rug and pet the dog. It's not the most condoning space to have both the most meaningless and meaningful conversations I tend to have in my kitchen in Connecticut. No my friend, only an American kitchen can give you those things. Today I am missing my kitchen, a special, magical place.

This poem by Joy Harjo:

Perhaps the World Ends Here

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

Found at the Poetry Foundation