The House on Tremont Street

Stories from the Kitchen…

I pulled onto the gravel driveway and parked near the barn. I was happy she had not arrived yet. It would give me a little extra time to do a walk-through by myself. I pushed open the screen porch door and it fought me like an old familiar friend as it scraped across the weathered floor boards. The porch was empty except for the green and yellow plastic clothespin bag that hung on the far shingled wall. I reached in and took out the dark gray skeleton key. Force of habit made me peak through the small curtained window into the kitchen as I unlocked the door. Growing up the kitchen door had never been kept locked, and I had to struggle with the key until I finally heard the click.

My shoes echoed as I walked across the sunny kitchen with its light blue bead board and now faded wallpaper that once danced with tiny red roosters. The diamond pattern on linoleum floor had long ago been rubbed out from heavy foot traffic - the kitchen being the gathering place for all things big and small. In addition to the back door, there was also a door to the den, a door to the dining room, a door to the cellar and large opening to a long pantry. So many doors meant not much space for storage cabinets. So the pots and pans were stored in the oven. And every time Mom wanted to bake or roast something, which she did often, she had to empty the oven’s full load and pile it onto the washing machine - which was about the only thing that metal monster was good for. At least once a month that front-loading devil would over suds, creating a whole day’s fiasco of emptying heavy soapy wash and mopping the sudsy water that flooded the kitchen and even ran into the den.

The narrow pantry was special. Lined with glass jars that originally held pickles or stewed prunes or mayonnaise, the clear glass shapes had been reborn to neatly display cereals, rice, dried fruits, flour, pins, needles, buttons, sewing machine bobbins and tea bags. We often put our small play table across the opening, set our red play cash register on it, and played “store” for hours. There was also a large collection of empty jelly glasses with colorful cartoon characters on them, and on the highest shelf Mom’s set of fine LaMoge china, an elegant pale cream with gilded edges and one perfect red rose in the center. It was used only for Sunday dinner.

But the jewel of the kitchen was a chin-high iron radiator just inside the back door that snuggled shoes and hats and mittens toasty warm in winter. Above the radiator hung a small blackboard that read “Dear Burglar, please take the following…” where Mom kept a running list of all the broken things in the house.