I love this old glossy photo of the kitchen in my grandparents' farmhouse. I only wish it showed more. It was a big kitchen but then it had to be with the meals being cooked and breads and cookies being baked and produce from the garden being cleaned, cooked or canned. You can see how the wood stove was the focal point. That pot in the forefront was the main one used for cooking just about everything. Behind it is the tea kettle always full of water. Up on top you can see a pie cooling. It was fun watching my grandmother bake her pies. Of course the crusts never came from a box in the dairy aisle like mind do. They were mixed and kneaded and water was added along with the Crisco and flour and a dash of salt until the consistency was just so. Then the dough was shaped into balls, rolled out, and filled with apples or raisins or pumpkin or mince meat or lemon pudding eventually topped with the fluffiest meringue ever. And this was done in-between everything else she had to do.
The cupboards in the kitchen were not brand name nor was there an island with stools or walls painted in designer shades to match a wood floor or carpet. No. The cupboards were white enamel. The floors were basic except for braided rugs my grandmother made from strips of fabric she'd braid together and then tack. The back door was not custom-made but it worked. It took us out to the barn-the backfields-the chicken coop turned into a clubhouse-the creek where we'd ride our rafts made from telephone poles all summer long and skate on all winter long..
In the end, a kitchen is not defined by designer this or that. It is defined by a feeling it evokes. You can't buy that or install it. That farmhouse kitchen felt like home because of a woman who worked her wood stove like a ballerina performing on a dance floor, making boiled dinners and soups and the best pies ever!
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