Hey there. I’m Leah. Welcome to tiny kitchen reverie. Pull up a chair.
Having subsisted on subpar cafeteria food for four years too many during my undergraduate years, I was starved of the opportunity to create by oven and stove. This, of course, fueled my cravings to do just that. Once settled in my first apartment, I took to the kitchen, which was even tinier than the one I have today. It was not a pretty sight. There was smoke, ingredient mix-ups, undercooked meat, overcooked meat—and more smoke. But with each thing burnt or half-baked, I slowly started to appreciate food’s full effect on the human spirit. Its ability to capture your senses and deliver you into a state of true happiness—happiness amongst the hectic, crazy, often bitter world we live in.
The kitchen became my haven. It was the place where I slowly begun to discover what I love, who I love, and who I was. It was a place from which I could give to others not only a slice of pie to nibble, but also a piece of myself. I had an enameled Dutch oven, a stand mixer, and a person to share dinner with every night. Life was good.
It was my original intent that this blog would serve as an outlet for me to share my creations, my cravings, my kitchen catastrophes, and, of course, a few recipes for others to try on their own. Life was good.
It was when I found myself throwing the leftovers from the previous night’s cookout (French fries and all) into a refrigerated pie crust, adding a couple eggs, and calling it a quiche that I realized I had let myself go. Life was still good, but changing, and I felt it most in the kitchen. The blog stared at me like two-day old takeout on the refrigerator shelf. Do I keep it? Do I pitch it? And I wondered who may care either way.
I don’t know what my intent for this blog is anymore, or why I find myself frantically typing away at the pages of it again. But, here I am.
Some nights, I spend hours cooking a meal that sucks. Other times, it turns out quite well. Some nights, I spend hours cooking a meal, but don’t eat a bite of it because the idea of sitting alone at that big dining room table kills my appetite. Other nights, I joyfully dance around my kitchen singing Frank Sinatra ballads with a wooden spoon in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. I go out with friends, I share a meal with my family, I explore the food of cities near and far. And, sometimes, I eat boxed macaroni-and-cheese straight from the pot with no regrets. Some days I find profound comfort in my cozy, little kitchen; other days, I feel smothered by it.