A millions words have been used to describe love, but very few to describe the path from life, to love, and back to life.
This is about the evolution of my kitchen countertop.Age 10- My mother’s countertop is a thing to be revered. It is perfectly lined with shiny appliances- some older than I am. It bares no personal significance other than the fact that I can’t touch most of them. Crumbs from the random peanut butter and jelly sandwich are tolerated. Jelly from said sandwich is not. Any sticky substance is met with a threat of ants- and five days of passive-aggressive silence.
Age 16—My mother’s countertop has changed, but only incidentally. Now a single mother, her attention wavers between absolute control and a permissiveness that borders on neglect, and her countertop reflects these extremes. The countertop is a regular revolving door of re-invention and indifference; a bread maker that disappears within 2 months, a rotisserie that is only used on Holidays, a pasta-maker bought during a low-fat diet craze, a George Forman Grill bought during a low carb diet craze. There are only two permanent fixtures- a coffeemaker and a bottle of vodka; one to dull the pain of the night before…the other to dull the pain of the 23 years before that.
I long to be rid of this countertop and have a countertop of my own...a place when the rules of my mother’s house no longer apply. I cut bagels directly on the forbidden Formica as a display of my rebellion.
Age 18- My first countertop, measuring roughly 2 feet long and flanked by a 2 burner stove and a mini-sink. Decorated sparsely with mini-appliances from the Good Will, like the toaster I would use if I ever woke up before 1pm. The faux wood laminate is burned and rippled form years of abuse and misuse, and anything set on it wobbles on its surface. I understand that countertop in so many ways.
Age 21-I’ve upgraded to a larger and newer countertop, which ends up covered in beer bottles with cigarette butts floating in them. Dishes spill over the sink and onto any available counter-space that will house them for a week or two. Purple stains from a miscalculated jello shot pouring mark the surface for years to come. ( For future reference, any activity involving jello shots is inherently miscalculated).
Age 23 My countertop is a pure reflection of myself- a mixture of youthful indiscretion and grown-up ambition. The occasional beer bottle still appears, but is quickly cleaned up to prominently display my $45 martini set that was purchased after my first promotion. I quickly figure out that I hate martinis, but I dust and display the set anyway to steer any wayward late-night visitors into thinking I am “cultured” instead of what I really am…lonely and desperate to be not only loved, but respected. Appliances slowly creep onto the surface, and for the first time, the countertop is used for its intended purpose- the preparation of meals. I make elaborate dinners for myself, such as filet and Oysters Rockefeller to subdue the nagging sensation that I will be alone forever.
Age 27- My countertop is now “our” countertop, and the daily struggle between “mine” and “ours” begins. My dishes multiple exponentially, and I convince myself that my mates near-daily habit of leaving wads of paper-towel all over my clean countertop is “quirky” and not “annoying”. I prepare meals and baked goods on that countertop to prove I am a suitable companion, and he returns the favor with high-end appliances that he gets because he knows I love to cook ( Gift of the Magi, indeed), . My countertop nears perfects, less one KitchenAid mixer, which I deprive myself of for years, citing expense and good old fashion guilt for having such a luxury.
Age 29- We are now a family, and my once clear countertops are overwhelmed by baby bottles and tiny spoons. My sink becomes a haven from spoiled milk bottles that appear under car seats and in between couch cushions. My partner dares not open them, but I soldier through the cleaning of them because my existence can be summarized in one word- sacrifice. My initial over sanitization of every surface quickly gives way to a sleep-deprived decision that the counter that was wiped down two days ago is “clean enough”.
Age 32- Third countertop in as many years. The fixtures of my countertop do not so much change as they shift. They are upgraded for newer and better appliances come Holiday time, and change location in each new house to make this space more “home” than the last “home”. The Crock-pot takes prominence on the counter, and I don’t even bother to put away the sauté pan anymore. New and exciting challenged arise, like little fingers that can now reach the knife I left on the cutting board.
Occasionally, my officially grown-up countertop becomes a burden to my existence. The wads of paper towel lose their quirky glimmer and simply become the thing I obsess over for weeks, until I blurt out something rude and unnecessary to my husband about me “not being his mother” during a fight at 2:30 am. I find myself cursing under my breath about jelly splotches on my clean countertops, and complaining about how we are going to get ants.
But then, every couple of days, I clean my countertops to near perfection. I pull out each appliance and scrub with fury until my hands burns and my back aches. And when I am done, I sit back and just stare at my countertops with a gratitude that fills my heart. This silly and stupid thing is a pure reflection of whole being. And, for just a moment, I think about the evolution of my countertop. This thing I took advantage of, to the thing I longed for, to the thing I used inappropriately, to the thing I took pride it, and now, it is the place where my family thrives. This simple place, where I make food to feed my family and create masterpieces that do nothing more than make my family happy for a few moments. I needed to have each kind of countertop to get where I am now. I needed the clean and the messy to make sense of why each one is a part of who I am today. Seven months ago, I finally purchased that KitchenAid mixer…on sale. My counter is now complete- the guilt is gone and I give and receive in almost perfect balance.
This is life. It is not fancy or glamorous, but the twist and turns have lead me to this place where life meets love, and love meets life. Such is the evolution of my kitchen countertops.
