the kitchen

This piece was written in 2005. It's loosely based on a real story. I used photos and memory to try and draw things together.

The Kitchen


On the day I was born, it rained. It rained for four days straight. They brought me home in the rusty old Volvo, carrying me in a little plastic bassinet with a sheet over it, up the front steps and into my grandmother’s warm kitchen. It rained when each of her grandchildren were born. No-one realised this pattern until Gemma came along – twelve years after Chiara, ten years after Simon, six years after me, four years after Luke, two years after Marc.

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Years later Simon remembers that it was the warmth that drew him there, the fire that was always burning in the old stove; the familiarity of the chipped blue pot his Nonna used for making tea; the old vinyl kitchen chairs that would stick to the back of his thighs on a hot day and make sucking noises whenever he stood up; the shelf full of photos, the smiling faces of past friends and family staring back at him, faded and cracked portraits from a different time, a different world. He remembers the linen curtains that hung over the sink, the yellowing fabric dotted with pale blue flowers, wearing at the corners; the hot water tap that was always dripping, no matter how many new washers Nonno put in; the chequered linoleum floor that he and Chiara used to spend endless hours playing games on.

Giro giro tondo, casca il mondo, casca la terra, tutti per terra!

It was that kitchen that all the grandchildren were first brought to after leaving the hospital, that kitchen that was each child’s first taste and smell and experience of the family environment. Almost like their futures were being mapped out for them, three sets of parents saying, “Look, here it is, this is where you’ll do all your living and learning”. The fire in the stove would be lovingly stoked and prepared in advance for the new arrival. A pot of coffee was prepared, a panettone bought from the deli and cut into generous, thick slices. A celebration. A new member of the family. This same ritual was carried out for the arrival of each of the six grandchildren.

The family would gather for dinner, and Adalia would make pasta, hand-rolling it out in big long sheets that she’d then dry in the back room; pasta that the children would try to eat raw, sneaking little tastes of the crunchy dough from underneath the old tablecloth that covered it as it dried. The whole house would smell of wheat and egg and flour, of pasta, of cooking.

Simon remembers standing at the edge of the kitchen table with Chiara, looking up at Nonna, her big fleshy arms kneading away at the dough. Years of practice meant she’d become adept at pushing flyaway strands of hair from her sweaty brow with just her shoulder. The two children would stand there together and Nonna would give them a little taste of the raw pasta, and they’d eat it, and their faces would simultaneously contort, giant smiles bursting from their cheeks, “Yuuuuuuuk!”.

She’d make desserts and treats for the children, recipes her own mother passed on to her.
Uovo sbattuto: take two eggs and separate the whites; add one cup of sugar to the yolks, together with a capful of Marsala. Beat with a fork until smooth and creamy. Serve immediately.
The children would devour their afternoon tea clean off the plate, dripping it all over themselves, their hands and cheeks sticky, small pink tongues darting out to lick their fingertips clean.

Nonno would take Simon and Chiara to see the canaries, boxed away in their compartments in the aviary. He would gently guide his granddaughter’s small hands to the feeding tube where she’d always be the first one to refill it, blowing gently to remove bits of shredded paper and shell-grit. The little yellow birds would dance around their cages, chirping loudly, beating their small wings. Nonno would show them both how to tag each bird with a little plastic ring that they would clip onto its leg while it flailed wildly, and the two children would giggle uncontrollably when the bird pooed on Nonno’s hand.

Simon and Chiara would spend long winter afternoons sitting in front of the small white stove in the warm kitchen, ensuring it always had enough fuel to keep it going. They would run back and forth to the woodpile in the laundry, carrying small bits of kindling that Nonno spent the warmer days chopping. They would sit there, staring at the glowing embers, side by side, just the two of them.

The photo was taken in 1986. He’s a knight, she’s a princess. His face is round and full, framed by a shock of black hair, his fringe hanging loosely in his chocolate brown eyes; a bright blue skivvy clings to his skinny body, the sleeves pulled up as far as they’ll go, ready for action, his tummy exposed where the shirt rides up over his jeans; a bright red cape with gold fringes hangs proudly from his shoulders, swinging softly in the afternoon breeze, his name stitched onto the back in cursive lettering, the S merging into the I into the M, one letter after the other; his face set and rigid, wariness of the camera showing in the crinkle of his nose, the way his lips are pursed, hands held stiffly by his side. His eyes don’t look at the camera, they look at her.

Anna, Marta and Frank were all raised in that kitchen, and later it was there that they brought their future spouses to meet the parents; later still that they brought their newborn children. They all passed through that same narrow doorway, the one with the picture of Jesus hanging above it, tied to an old nail with the same tartan string that Nonna used to tie everything with – the tomatoes to their stakes, Christmas presents, blinds flapping in the wind. She kept the string in a huge drawer in the kitchen table that was always full of treasures, knick-knacks, things to entertain small minds on a rainy day, waiting for a new baby to arrive. Daniele and Luke sat there, waiting for Marc to come, whiling away the time with paper clips and masking tape, as Simon poked about behind them, alone, trying to stoke the fire.

The photo was taken in 1986. He’s a knight, she’s a princess. She’s wearing a bright yellow raincoat, plastic, shiny, a makeshift art-smock, a blue bunny embroidered on the breast, a nametag on the other – Chiara, arms splayed out in front, fingertips touching, creating, a pirouette; cascading dusty blonde hair, full rosy cheeks swelling with each peal of laughter, gapped teeth, count them, one, two, three, a game, a tiny pink tongue darting between the spaces, giggling, eyebrows dancing like caterpillars across her brow, up and down, round and round, tiny ears twitching. A body that won’t sit still.

Nonna and Nonno had a rickety old swing set in their backyard that all the children played on. Chiara and Simon would take turns on the monkey-bars and then push each other on the swing-seat. Above the swing hung a giant fig-tree, a gnarled and cracked old beast that would creak in the wind, with branches that splayed out at funny angles, perfect for climbing. The two children would scramble up the lower limbs and pick the small pear-shaped fruits before the birds got to them, and they’d devour a bucketful in an afternoon. Sometimes Jade from across the street would play with them, too. And then, one day, Nonna said Chiara couldn’t play because she was sick.

She’s wearing a pale blue gown, her skin sallow, hair matted and plastered to her cool brow. Nurses and doctors sweep into the room in a whirlwind of charts, pills, drips, jargon. Stat. Twelve drops before meals. Three tabs twice daily four times a week for six weeks. Do the hokey-pokey and shake it all about. Her fingers are cold and she looks so small in this big bed, swamped by blankets and whirring machines and tubes and buttons. Days blur, an avalanche of medication, sleepless night, tears, boxes of tissues, more tears, hushed conversation, dawning realisation. A body that’s just still.

The sun was shining on the day they buried Chiara. Simon stayed home with Jan, one of Nonna’s neighbours. He sat in the kitchen and drew pictures of King Arthur and Optimus Prime. He kept getting up to check that the fire was still burning, and when he saw that it was getting low he’d run to the laundry to get some more wood so that the fire was always alive.

*

I know the kitchen now. Stark and white with sticky floors and a leaking chimney that drops soot on the bench top; cupboards that aren’t functional, trapped behind glass doors that have trouble opening; a skylight too dirty and clouded with dead moths to be of any use. A shiny new European stainless steel oven replaces the old beaten up stove under the alcove, and the drawer in the kitchen table that once held all those childhood treasures is now empty and impractical. Harsh fluorescent light isn’t kind to the poky old room, a musty smell lingering in every drawer. Most of all, it’s cold.