The Island in the Kitchen

It doesn’t look like much at first. In fact, when you walk through the door, it’s probably not the first thing you notice. You probably notice the red wall and the sweeping staircase. Maybe it’s the beautifully coordinated décor. Maybe it’s the smells. The faint scent of cigarette smoke sneaking in from the patio. Or the something delicious that is always cooking in the kitchen. Maybe you notice the sounds. The television in the living room, probably tuned in to whatever sport is in season. Maybe the sound of the oven timer or the microwave. Most likely, the sound that you notice is the chatter and laughter. It’s coming from the middle of the kitchen. It really doesn’t look like much. The island in the kitchen is rectangular and made of wood. Cabinets and drawers fill the side closest to the sink, creating storage space for Tupperware, pots, and serving utensils. A row of three bar stools made of brown wicker lines the other side. It’s a pretty decent size, maybe three feet by four feet. The Formica counter top is a grayish blue, and usually covered with serving dishes and fantastic food. There’s probably a bottle of wine, some vodka, or mixers of some sort. But other than the convenience of the island providing storage and counter space, the island serves a purpose. A very important purpose. The island is where we sit. Well, maybe we are leaning against it. Or standing next to it. But us ladies are always around it. We’re laughing and gossiping. We’re catching up and winding down. We’re drinking wine and nibbling on cheese and crackers. Sometimes we’re yelling and sometimes we’re crying. We’re looking at pictures and telling stories. I’m not sure how it started. Maybe it started one Sunday, when I walked into the kitchen carrying a bottle of wine. (Stupid Bitch? Skinny Bitch? Royal Bitch? It was something-Bitch…). I set it firmly down on the counter and announced, “Let’s drink.” It could have been one Easter, when a particular uncle decided that a particular 14-year old cousin needed to try Crown Royal. How it started, though, maybe isn’t really that important. What is important is what happened around that island. I’m not saying that we weren’t close. We had never really gotten the opportunity to be close. We were all family by blood or by marriage. But none of us really knew each other that well. And around the island in the kitchen, that all changed. We pulled together. We had to. Nobody was going to survive otherwise. That’s what’s so great about the island. It’s wonderful when we are sitting there laughing at ourselves. It’s fun to share our stories. But it’s necessary in order for us to survive our heartbreaks. You see, the island is where we miss those that we have lost. And those that have decided to lose us. Around the island in the kitchen, we started a new family where our old one left off. I’m not saying you can replace a son, a nephew, a brother. But you can’t ever underestimate the power of a group of women. Particularly after a few vodka gimlets. I’m not sure if we were trying to distract each other intentionally or if some type of natural instinct took over, but being together around that island helps us deal. Being together around the island in the kitchen, we are almost able to forgive. And for a few hours we forget. We change the subject and talk about which Clinic doctors are great and which ones are assholes. We can vent about the idiot neighbor and how men leave their socks everywhere. The medically inclined can share stories of the emergency room. The slightly older generation can share stories about when they were our age. It doesn’t look like much. It’s probably not the first thing you notice. But that island..the island in the kitchen, means a lot. It’s safe. It’s a sanctuary. The island in the kitchen sees laughter and it sees tears. It sees women having fun and women working through their heartbreaks. It really doesn’t look like much. Dedicated to the women in my family that make it so incredibly awesome!!!