My mother's kitchen

Today is Mother's Day. I slept late and was treated to a hearty breakfast in bed, brought upstairs by proud, beaming little boys.  Benjamin made the tea, Graham the toast and Owen the eggs.  Rain and thunder promised a few lazy hours spent reading a new novel.  After the rain stopped, hubby and I worked in the garden a bit, before the wind whipped us silly and another dark cloud passed overhead with more heavy drops.

After breakfast I called my mother to wish her a happy mothers day.  She and the rest of our family (my sisters and brother) were going out to lunch.  I felt guilty not being there, but we had just come back from a visit three days ago.  A slew of Canadian relatives had found cheapo flights and flown out mid-week, and we dropped everything to drive to the Cities to see them.

It was a grand visit, lots of talking and chatting and laughing, with games of tennis and ping pong to liven things up. Most of the time was spent in the kitchen, sitting and standing around the table, cooking or eating or playing cards.  That kitchen has served as the focal point, the heart of the house ever since I was a child.  My parents have on occasion talked about replacing cabinets, fixtures, brick siding, etc.  I express my outrage at each suggestion.  I almost rebelled when they replaced the linoleum floor with hardwood ten years ago.  Nobody messes with my memories.

And at the center of those kitchen memories is my mother.  Meals cooked, pots scrubbed, quilts sewed, coffee drank, books read, cigarettes smoked and card games played.  Every trivet on the wall, every goblet on the shelf, every tea bag in the crock are there because of her.  If a kitchen is the heart of the home, a mother is the heart of the family.

If you click on and zoom into the photo above, you can read the sampler hanging on the wall behind my mom. It says, 'A Good Mother Makes a Happy Home.'  I am fortunate enough to have been blessed with both.

Happy Mother's Day to you all.