Emma's Kitchen

            The creaky side door opens onto an expanse of dark blue, unbroken linoleum.  Light pours in from many windows, all painted in white, like the walls.  To the right, a counter is covered with car keys, a clock radio, French press and a toaster.  Below, an array of drawers hold assorted cutlery, measuring cups, and a multitude of napkins.  Hardly any of the napkins match, all in different colors, textures and sizes.  They were a delight to my eyes after seeing the same coordinated plaid at my house over the year.  Everything was always more exciting at Emma’s house, and the napkins were certainly well used by us. 

            The napkins were mostly used to wipe the grease that ran from our homemade tortillas and cheese that we were so proud to have learned to make.  Only 25 seconds on each side in the microwave, we perfected this art.  When the Lord of the Rings movies came out, we pretended that the delicious triangles were the lembas bread that Frodo and Sam ate on their treacherous journey to Mordor.  Of course, stale Elven bread was probably nothing compared to the warm, chewy goodness of white corn tortillas and sharp cheddar.

            Under one window, a black gas stove sits waiting for use, a steel kettle takes up one of the four burners.  I can only assume that this is where Emma’s mother prepared the scariest, but ultimately most eye-opening meals of my life.  When she placed the block of plain tofu in front of me at dinner, I didn’t know what to do. 

            “What is this?” I asked Emma, eyeing the piece of which she had just taken a big bite.

            “It’s tofu.  We eat it all the time,” she replied, and kept chomping away, oblivious to my terror.

            Up until that point in time, tofu had been a mystery food, something vegetarians ate because they felt bad that they couldn’t eat meat.  What normal omnivore would choose to eat this? 

            Maybe it won’t be so bad, I thought.  Wrong.

            The tofu was like a tasteless, wet piece of bread.  My little hands trembled and my eyes searched around wildly for help as I choked down my first bite.  The piece seemed to be growing, and I cursed my parents silently for raising me to eat everything on my plate.  Somehow I made it through the meal, and prayed I would never be offered tofu again.

            Raised cupboards hold cups, bowls and plates.  Two of the coffee mugs had little animals in the bottom, a treat after finishing your cup of hot chocolate.  Often times, I would barely taste the drink in my rush to get to the cute little frog that was waiting for me.  Sometimes Emma and I would even make it a race, if we were feeling competitive and didn’t mind burning our tongues. 

            A towering oven/microwave combination stands next to the door into the book room.  This oven was the place where the real magic of the kitchen happened.  Emma’s mother was a master bread and cake maker, though Emma and I liked to claim that we were the best at muffins. 

            One of the few things that I can claim to have introduced Emma to is Jiffy muffin mix.  This was the kind of product that her mother would never have bought to have in the house, and why would she when she could make her own from scratch.  However, Emma fell in love with their fluffy texture and their miniature artificial blueberry specks.  Every time we planned a sleepover, she would beg me to bring these muffins to her house, although I grew increasingly terrified when I found out how much her mother detested them.  It was almost like I was a spy with a special mission to sneak them into the house undetected. 

            “Let’s make muffins!” Emma would shout as soon as my eyes opened in the morning.  She grabbed the box and raced downstairs to prepare the muffin pan.  We would grab a bowl, add the one egg and half cup of water, and stir vigorously, thinking how clever we were to make them taste so good.  Twenty minutes later we were munching on golden brown muffins and her mother was telling us how gross and artificial they were, a fact that escaped me for many long years.  Even though we knew that that the homemade muffins Emma’s mother promised to make would be much better, this was our special tradition and that made the muffins taster better than any other breakfast food could. 

            A black fridge occupies space on the far wall, covered in photographs of all the people that the Cross-Coleman family loves, including me.  A picture of me at one of Emma’s themed birthday parties, dressed in a puffy pink dress and a straw hat, one of the girls from a Monet painting.  Another counter area and then the breakfast bar, which lays directly in front of the creaky door.

            The light wood breakfast bar, with its high chairs is one place in this kitchen that holds the best memories of my life, and also the worst.  I stood at this breakfast bar and listened as Emma’s father explained how I would never see my closest friend again.  Emma was gone from the world, and the memories I had in this kitchen, in this house, were all I had left to remember her.  And people brought food.

            The idea of bringing grieving people food never made much sense to me, and now it just made me angry.  What did these people think their chocolate cherry breads and raspberry scones were going to fix?  Could this squash soup really replace Emma’s beautiful blue eyes and the way she understood me in a way that no one else ever has?  I doubted it, and I was furious that people could think that her family could eat at a time like this.

            Thinking back now, 56 days later, I realize that these people brought food not because they thought it would make things better, but because food is our connection to life.  So many memories are wrapped up in food, and bringing homemade dishes is a symbol that there is still hope, and there is still life after a tragedy like this.  Many other memories of my childhood and friendship with Emma may fade, but these foods will always be a connection to her.

**Note:  I added the last part, though it's more recent, because I felt like it was a defining moment in how I see food and it was a major moment in my relationship with this kitchen, but let me know what you think.  I realize it seems a little emotion heavy, but please make as many and any comments that you want!  Don't be shy and I thank you in advance!