The Kitchen with the Yellow Stool

2 wicker baskets full of muffins sit on a blue...

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

As I write this my partner, M, is busy in the kitchen making muffins. He is using an old recipe book, one of those great little gems that isn’t at all fancy but completely useful and built around the notion of good nutritious food that is also meant to be comforting and filling.

Old fashioned concepts, perhaps. For many of us, living our lives of plenty, we worry about comfort foods that fill us up. At best, they are starting to become guilty treats and at worst, calorie bombs to be decried and banned.

Sadly, they have lost their position as foods to be honoured and enjoyed after a long day of hard work.

I have good memories of such foods. Walking home from school on a cold rainy day to the yeasty, thick warmth of my mother’s kitchen as she pulled new bread from the oven. My cheeks warming up as sitting on the yellow stool, she served a thick slice, butter melting into the white softness.

We talked softly, too. About school. About my plans. About my friends’ plans. Dreaming about life to the accompaniment of pure edible bliss.

Much was discussed in that kitchen with the yellow stool while a drift of gratifying comfort foods was being prepared and consumed.

I miss it.

16 thoughts on “The Kitchen with the Yellow Stool

  1. I remember those days well and you are correct that now the comfort foods are a sweet delicacy of warmth that is made to feel like the forbidden fruit. What would I rather on a cold day – a nice warm slice of fresh bread with butter – you can jam your apple or orange πŸ˜‰ (Apologies to the healthy eaters).

  2. Geez, Lynette – that was so sweet. Times seemed simpler and for some reason it seemed there was more time in the day. I remember my Aunt making jarred preserves when I came home from school or nana putting out graham crackers and a glass of milk. I can’t even remember that last time I had a glass of milk. I love this blog for the things it reminded me of. The things we should cherish. And honestly, you had me at “muffins.” So there’s that. πŸ˜‰

    • I always thought that I loved food, but what I really love(d) was the connectedness of it, the inherent love in a bowl of homemade soup or piece of pie. Thanks so much for your comments – wish I could send you a muffin! πŸ™‚

  3. So it happens all over the world. I remember fighting my siblings for the crusty end of the loaf, dripping in butter, maybe with a bit of cheese. We’d sit around the kitchen table and discuss our day. Supper would come later, once Dad was home. Simple pleasures…

  4. I wish we had a little spot for the kids to sit and watch too. We don’t have a breakfast bar or a floating island, the kitchen is too small. But, the kids are always asking to bake, and coming up with unique little concoctions, I hope those build memories too!

  5. One day I had homemade chicken noodle soup and hot biscuits for my grandson when he got home. He said it was the best thing he very tasted. Thanks for helping me remembering.

    • You’re welcome! The best thing he tasted – that’s so lovely.

      My partner made chicken soup a few days ago and it was so good. The weather wasn’t nice either which added to the flavour. πŸ™‚ One of the other downsides of our hurried, packaged world is that everything tastes the same – I’m sure that part of what your grandson enjoyed was that you made the soup and biscuits in the way that you make them.

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