Turquoise blue cupboards, with silver and black handles. A muted grey and brown arborite table surrounded by chairs with plastic, turquoise covered seats. A small fridge and stove. Potted plants in the windowsill. A black rotary dial phone in a small enclave in the corner. A door on the wall that opened to a pull-down ironing board. The radio in the corner of the counter, with turning knobs, always on playing music and news. That is how I recall the kitchen at 720 Cathedral Avenue. I spent 23 years living in that kitchen. Doing so many things.
Fridays were baking days – Mom would bake with yeast rising dough, making cinnamon buns and bierocks. Bierocks are a Russian bun made from sweet, leavened dough, filled with meat, onion and cabbage. They are baked in the oven. Mom would cover the kitchen table with flour and baking sheets. She would meticulously form the beirocks and the buns by hand. The room would fill with the savoury scent of spiced meat, onion and cabbage. Followed by the sweet smell of sugar and cinnamon. We always knew what we were having for supper on Fridays.
Tuesdays the kitchen table would be pulled out in front of the stove and covered with layers of sheets and other padding. Mom would fill a pop bottle with water and plug it with a cork full of holes. She used that to shake water on the things she was going to iron. The heavy, flat iron would sit on a stove element to be heated. Mom would do the week’s ironing. Everything would be ironed, including sheets, pillowcases, tea towels and underwear. The room would fill with the warm smell of steam.
Every day we would eat dinner at the kitchen table. All four of us, my mom, dad, sister and I, had our usual seats. I looked at the round, electric clock on the wall. Dinner was a time for conversations about what happened today, the world, and our family. There were two rules – no singing or reading at the table. (Music and reading were encouraged at all other times.) The room filled with the scents of the evening’s fare – perogies, cabbage rolls, dumpling soup, pork hocks and cabbage, Lake Winnipeg pickerel, Manitoba goldeye.
On cold, January mornings I would wake up and saunter down the hall to the kitchen. Both doors would be closed. The oven would be on, with the door open, to warm up the room, while the rest of the house warmed up. The room was filled with the scent of Cream of Wheat or oatmeal – to warm up our innards.
My mother provided the heart of the kitchen. We were all eager participant. She always welcomed us in to help or to chat or to just be.