Mom's Kitchen

The door opens to a chilly, disordered entrance; shoes of all shapes and sizes are sprawled across the floor and piled haphazardly beneath the bench, the stained mat askew below the chaos. Hallways branch to the left and right, but the end of the tunnel urges onward, away from the possible locations waiting in alternative directions. An enticingly warm brightness, a light worthy of a heavenly chorus invites you on, only to wrap you in a celestial aroma. Found here is the end of pain, suffering, sadness and hunger, for in the light, you are embraced into the renowned Mom’s Kitchen.

A tin, handpainted sign of red and turquoise displaying the words “Mom’s Diner: Open 24/7” is a welcoming sight. A long, rich, cedar table commands the eating area. With room enough for the family of six, (in addition to the ever constant and unpredictable flow of guests) the table is a promising scene. The ample amount of space and variety and quantity of homemade cooking and baking are constants. For their presence is the one thing never amiss in Mom’s Kitchen.

A favourite time is the anticipation of a holiday, Christmas being the most eventful of all. Beginning the first day of December, the white marble countertops become the atelier of a master, piled high with pans, bowls, spoons, and measuring instruments: the tools of a culinary artist. Dainties are on their way! The persistent spins and clatters of the first class Kitchen Chef Mixer soothe the mind and excite the stomach. The anticipation brought on from Mom’s brewing desserts recalls the footprints of each carefully tasted treat of the past. The flavour is suddenly fresh, as if it had only been moments since its presence on the tongue.

Hours pass, absorbed with diligent work, swift movements and enticing scents which emanate through the house. An outsider’s perspective would be of pure chaos, but Mom knows the exact and perfect placement of every ingredient. Each recipe, having been done countless times in the past, is second nature to her; recipe books are no longer required. The four young children anticipate the end with anxiety, ready to rise at any and all occasion to the task of taste-testing. Never have there been more willing subjects then for such a cause as this: the premature chance of savouring such delicacies entitles extreme boasting privileges.

The dainties, arranged on every available tray, plate and rack, are piled around the kitchen and line the counters and table. The chocolate coating is slowly setting on the Nanaimo bars and brownies; the icing on the sugar cookies is hardening to perfection, and the petite cakes are cooling to the ideal thickness; any sudden movement threatens to upset them.

The end is a celebrated occasion. At last the queen of chefs has a chance to unwind, take a seat and enjoy the work that has taken days to accomplish. The scents of sweets remain in the air and fallen crumbs are strewn under the table. Plates of chewy brownies, sugar cookies that melt in your mouth, chocolate drop cookies, thick, creamy fudge and Nanaimo bars sit on the table, free for all to sample at will; all other batches are stored for another day. The time when the treasure is once again presented before the people is a special one, one worthy only of the finest. And the finest is what they will receive.