The Second Generation of Kitchen Therapy

I remember trying so hard to sit still and calm down in school when I knew that weekend we were having company. Both my parents have a lot of siblings who, much to my never ending joy, produced multiple children per family. As a result, I am one of dozens of cousins within a ten year span. Needless to say, I’ve had built in best friends my entire life. When one of those glorious weekends would roll around and I knew we’d be having guests, it was the happiest I could ever be. For once in my lazy childhood I’d pick up the vacuum hose and haphazardly scoot my toys into one corner of my room in preparation. My mother would be looking haggard, to be quite honest, from the never ending cooking and cleaning, and my dad would be licking his chops over a new bottle or two of scotch to share.

Those weekends would come and go so quickly. There would be harrowing tales of love unrequited or denied and, without a doubt, a squabble or two over whose turn it was in the bathroom. People camped out on sofas and floors on a makeshift bed, yet no one ever complained. And everyone would informally gather around the table in the kitchen. Sometimes in packs, sometimes in pairs - all in search of a snack and some answers. Both were always found.

Saying goodbye on the sidewalk as family after family pulled away filled our entire house with quiet. Dinner that night was leftovers – but no one ever really ate much. By Monday the feeling was completely gone and would only return once the photos were developed; sometimes that didn’t happen for weeks.

Over the years we’ve done a satisfactory job of staying in touch, but the weekends of noise and laughter have never returned like they once were. The kids who once spent hours trying on each other’s clothes have all grown up and undertaken grown up jobs; their own families now taking precedence over aunts, uncles and cousins.

But now, I get to play host. It’s on a much smaller scale – just two of my cousins, but it will be the first time I’ve ever had overnight guests over to my apartment. The food is all prepared and fresh towels are folded nicely in the cupboard, but my home is missing something.

Everyone can agree that the house revolves around the kitchen. It’s where a kitchen chair can magically transform into a therapeutic leather sofa and the never ending grazing manages to whet your appetite even more. There being just two in our home generally means we eat in front of the TV. This scenario isn’t really conducive to company, so a proper dining table must be purchased from Cymax.

It might be a bit touchy-feely of me, but I already anticipate the exchange of news and wine over a comfortable, stylish dining table that will, with any luck, house a new generation of memories. Perhaps next time there will be children of our own . . . or better yet, an extra bottle of wine.

Taking a Sentimental Journey via the Television

April 4, 2008 is the 40th anniversary of the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King. I was a child when he was shot on the balcony of a motel in Memphis, Tennessee, but I remember watching the funeral on television five days later. I didn’t know who he was really, except that he was one of the good guys, he had a dream and he spoke out against injustices and inequality. I didn’t understand any of the political nuances until I was much older, but that day, watching Martin Luther King’s funeral on television with my parents, I knew a light in world had gone out.

This was my first experience with how TV lets me peer through the windows of my world into the world around me without having to leave my living room.

One year later, sitting really close to the television—without any dire warnings about going blind—I remember very clearly, watching a man walk on the moon. In the middle of a lengthy, technical explanation about why people float in space, my father stopped talking. We continued watching for a long time in total silence. A man was walking on the moon!

In the early hours of the morning of July 29, 1981, my parents woke my sister and me up to see Lady Diana Spence marry Prince Charles. I barely could keep my eyes open, but I didn’t mind. She was one of us—she had worked for a living, had friends and drove an economy car—and now she was marrying The Prince. I couldn’t sleep through that; I had to witness it with my own eyes.

Another definitive television moment for me occurred on April 19, 1995 when the Federal Building in Oklahoma City was bombed. Someone had a beef with the way the government handled the Waco and Ruby Ridge incidents, so he bombed a federal building that housed a day care. All these years later, I still feel exactly the same way (very bewildered) as I did when I watched the coverage of Timothy McVeigh’s arrest and trial.

On September 11, 2001, I had the day off. I hadn’t slept very well the night before and so, early in the morning I admitted defeat and turned on the TV. Just in time to see the second plane fly through the second tower. It wasn’t a newscast or a replay; this happened as I watched. I know the world changed for everyone that day, but it felt personal; it felt like being betrayed by a best friend.

When I moved into a place of my own, I duped myself into thinking that I didn’t really watch that much TV and therefore didn’t need one. I was on a tight budget, and while my family did donate enough rec room rejects to keep me from sleeping and sitting on the floor, there were priorities and a television wasn’t one of them. I lasted three weeks, the radio being a poor substitute for Law and Order reruns. On a Sunday dinner visit, I casually asked my parents if they had a television they could spare, and could I please “borrow” it until I could invest in one of my own. They did indeed have one they could lend me—the screen was only marginally bigger than a matchbook and it was black-and-white. It didn’t matter—it was a television and it worked, well, sort of.

One day, as I vacuumed the living room rug with the television on, I realized that, as far away as I was from the TV, I was able to feel the heat emanating from it on my bare arms. I took the hint. I stopped procrastinating and bought a new one. However, when I brought my brand new color TV home, I made an amazing discovery. It would no longer fit on the tall wood hand-me-down plant stand that housed the old black and white. No problem. I sat it on the floor and plugged it in. I lasted three days. I stopped procrastinating and bought a TV stand. It was traditional in style, with cabriole legs, space for a VCR, a cord hole and a rich wood finish. It was perfect. I could once again watch television in comfort (and in color).

Not only was TV a window to the world at large, but it entertained me as well. Just as breaking world news had marked some of the defining moments of my life, so too had weekly TV dramas and comedy shows. Through the years, I was there for all of the most important “last of” episodes: Mash, Seinfeld and Friends. And then there were the television shows that I wouldn’t miss. I don’t mean that if I wasn’t going to be home, then I would tape them. No! I mean that I found them so interesting and entertaining that I had to watch them in person so to speak, when they first aired. I can name them. The Education of Max Bickford with Richard Dreyfuss was about a history professor (played by Dreyfuss) and his adventures as a single parent and recovering alcoholic. It only lasted one season, and I was pretty upset when it wasn’t renewed. I was even more upset when, after two seasons of Joan of Arc was taken off the air. The show was really good television: it was very well written, funny and dealt with spirituality, individuality and other weighty contemporary issues. I enjoyed Six Feet Under for pretty much the same reasons, but at least it wasn’t canceled—it just ended, very satisfactorily, after six seasons.

And then of course, there were the Oscars. Since I am the daughter of a projectionist, I have missed the seeing the live broadcast of the Academy Awards four times since I was eight. I was there (via the magic of television) on February 19, 1974, when a streaker, flashing a peace sign, ran from one side of the stage to the other, behind David Niven who was about to speak into the microphone. My mother became slightly hysterical, urging me to put my hands over my eyes. By the time she got up to change the channel (in the Dark Ages, before remotes), the miscreant had vanished. I was watching in the spring of 1978 when, upon accepting her award the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress for her role in Julia, Vanessa Redgrave expressed her support for the Palestinian cause, causing the audience to boo and applaud at the same time. I was there when Adrian Brody kissed Halle Berry, leaving every woman (married or otherwise) watching the Oscars that night wondering (if they had never received one before) when they, too would experience the exhilaration of a just such a knee-bending kiss.

Whenever something goes wrong with the television or the cable provider changes the lineup and messes up all of my pre-programming or they cancel a show that I really enjoyed watching, I threaten to get rid of the TV. I don’t need the aggravation. But then I realize that I’d miss watching the news, breaking stories, old movies, newer movies I’ve seen at the theatre but just have to watch again because the story is so good, and of course The Oscars. Some (TV) habits are too hard to break.