by Phyllis McCrossin
I have a tiny kitchen in our travel trailer. It consists of two feet of counter space, probably three square feet of cupboard space, a four-burner stove and an oven that does not work, but makes a great storage space for pots and pans.
I traded a microwave for a countertop oven/air-fryer/convection oven/broiler. None of the components work as well as each individual appliance might, but it works for us.
The setup is perfect for someone (like me) who is no longer into cooking.
Don’t get me wrong, I like to cook – but only when the mood strikes. And I certainly don’t have to cook to keep King happy. He is content with a salad and fish sticks and to be honest, most of the time prefers it over something that might take several hours to prepare.
Since our kitchen is now 18 inches from our living room he can now watch me as I cook and is quite aghast that when I do make something from scratch, I sample the food as it is cooking. He does not get the concept of checking to see if whatever I’m making needs extra seasoning or more liquid, or whatever.
We will celebrate our 45th wedding anniversary this month and he still insists his mother never taste tested anything. I can attest to that.
My mother loved to cook. She loved to entertain. She did both as often as possible. When she moved to an assisted living center, (and while she was still semi-cognizent of her surroundings) she would often assist with setting tables and tea.
In fact, when we were young, Mom often hosted Women’s Teas for that conservative political party she campaigned for during election years. State representatives and senators would make campaign stops in Hamilton and Mom would open our home for them and serve the usual tea fare. It was all very formal and proper.
I was a small child the year we built our swimming pool. That summer Mom was preparing to host a tea for a state representative. Since the pool was in, Mom and Dad thought it would be a good idea to pour the cement for a patio area adjacent to the pool. If they planned correctly, the cement would dry and cure and the patio would be ready in time for the tea. Ahhh, the best laid plans . . .
The cement truck arrived on the designated day and backed in to the space where the cement was to be poured. Unfortunately it backed over the area where the drywell for the kitchen sink was located. (The greywater from the kitchen sink drained into this rather than into the regular septic tank). There was a loud groaning sound and the truck sank about six feet into the yard.
There was no way it could be fixed before the impending conservative political party tea. So Mom, ever the resourceful one, had Dad line the gaping hole with saw horses and hung potted geraniums from them. I think they may have covered the pit with large tarps.
Playing hostess was something Mom truly enjoyed. She was good at it and taught her daughters to do the same. We may not have followed in her footsteps and played hostess the way she did, but we did learn the proper way to do things. Whether or not we decided to follow in her footsteps was our decision.
I chose not to.
Before we moved into our travel trailer, the extent of my entertaining consisted of ordering pizza, serving it from the box and setting out two-liters of pop for everyone to help themselves.
