Kitchen Reflection

By Lerin Mizar

The coral colored, diamond-patterned linoleum stretches out before me. Its undisturbed surface, cool to the touch, beckons only the adventurous to play its game. I surrender to its call as I take a running leap and slide upon its slick back. My woolen socks are my only guide as I give myself up to this freedom. This remains an untamed ritual I indulge when I return home to my family kitchen. Growing up, the kitchen has meant many things to me. It was a playground, a refuge and a battleground. It was a place for family and friends to gather, a space to create and an area that welcomed both laughter and tears. Since my childhood, I have had three different kitchens up till now. Though they have all shared common themes and emotions, each marked a different transition in my life.

Growing up, I had trained for my own Olympics as I created obstacle courses filled with death defying feats. You could usually find me dashing through the hallways, leaping over child safety gates and back through the living room to repeat the course. My dog and I would play this endless game of chase using the kitchen as our ground of negotiation. When I wasn’t running through the kitchen I was climbing on it. From the time I was big enough to reach the counters I was clambering on top of the cabinets searching for hidden treasures, forgotten among the dishes. I would find antique dishware, a tin of holiday treats, bags of matches and ceramic figurines that smelled of spices. I was so proud when my mother would put me in charge of hiding the candy and chocolate in the cupboards so we could ration it out to my father. Even when I could reach the higher shelves without the aid of climbing, I habitually hopped onto the counters.

The kitchen was also a place for celebrations. I can still remember the “My Little Pony” paper plates littering the counter for my 4 th birthday. A chimpanzee named Susa came swinging through the doorway for my dad’s 40 th. I’ll never forget her spitting on the trick candles. During elementary school my brother and I would recite Garfield comics and movie lines back and forth to one another across the table for amusement. Though holiday dinners were never mandatory for my family, it was a rare but special occasion when all four of us sat down together. Sometimes my mother would put a candle on the table and dim the lights and we would share a bottle of sparkling cider. As we grew older and schedules were filled with soccer practice, art projects and homework, dinner was not usually eaten together at the table but in front of a TV as we each got home. Our family meals have endured several migrations throughout the years.

Family fights often started or at least ended up in the kitchen. Something about the kitchen setup and florescent lights must have made it feel like some sort of arena. Debates I had with my parents ranged from the difference between liberals and conservatives to curfew negotiation and the appropriate dating age. My brother and I had many heated debates about our own values and social beliefs. Other times it was about why we repeatedly borrowed each other’s clothes without asking. If it were a good day, the fight would end with us wrestling on the kitchen floor. The slickness of the floor only added to the fun of grappling and tickling. My brother was ridiculously ticklish. Once exhausted, we would get up and cook food together as a kind of compromise.

The kitchen was the ideal place for art projects. My mother and I usually had the countertops and kitchen table covered with ongoing projects. It was a wonder if you could safely walk through the kitchen amidst all the construction paper, glitter, paint and photographs. Day after day we would both silently work into the night. My mother used to make the large backdrops for the school plays so I remember the large sheets of drawings and props covering the floor turning the kitchen into a temporary wonderland. Side by side we would clean our paintbrushes in the large metal sink. We would smile at each other’s colorfully smudged fingers in recognition of a job well done. I would watch the muddied water swirl down the drain and remember that this was the same sink in which I used to religiously wash my pink plastic teacup set. Costumes, props, murals and collages have filtered in and out of the kitchen leaving colorful remnants of paper and memories behind.

Soon it was time for me to move onto another kitchen in my life. In my last year at Seattle Central Community College I moved into an apartment in Capitol Hill with two girls from my class. This was the first time I had lived on my own and the kitchen became a refuge. When I was stressed from the school workload or other frustrations I would go into the kitchen and cook. I experimented with new recipes and found a new outlet for expression. My roommates and I would sometimes cook together. Laughing together we would maneuver unsuccessfully through the cramped kitchen that also served as our laundry room. During the infamous spin cycle, the washer would shake uncontrollably, sending earthquake worthy vibrations through the floor and walls. Doing laundry was an event especially if you left dirty dishes on top of the machine during a cycle. We knew it was a successful cooking day when we blew a fuse because we were running all the appliances at once.

Now that I am at WWU, living in the off-campus, school apartments I find myself in yet another kitchen. This time I found myself exploring it with strangers. As the four of us got to know each, we found that we bonded most in the kitchen. One of us is always doing homework, cooking or snacking. I enjoy sitting at the kitchen table to do my homework since the opposite window looks out at the mountains and base hills. This prompted me to take photographs of the changing seasons from that one viewpoint. Not only are we always in the kitchen but we are also always trying new foods together. However I’ll never forget how comforting it was to learn that I shared many of the same unique food habits with one of my roommates. We eat oatmeal and brown rice as an accompaniment to almost ever meal. She with her powdered milk and me with my soymilk.

The kitchen has meant many things to me. Mostly it represents the bonds of family as well as independence and self-empowerment. There are many kitchens in my future and I look forward to exploring each one and making it my own. I will always remember my first real family kitchen back in Bremerton. Though I visit less often now, every time I return I make sure the kitchen and I give each other a proper welcome with a dramatic sock slide.

My name is Lerin Mizar and I grew up in Bremerton, Washington but I also enjoy traveling, especially to San Francisco. I hope to one day to travel throughout Europe, Australia and New Zealand. I am also a photographer who loves to take pictures of nature and portraits. Tree frog photos are my specialty. I enjoy hiking, kayaking, long boarding, and rock-climbing. I have an AAS and BA in Graphic Design and I am also interested in book arts/binding. I am intrigued by children’s literature and hope to enter the field working perhaps at a publishing house in San Francisco.