Gravy

This morning mom made gravy. Sausage, toast and gravy, cantaloupe for breakfast. But the smell of gravy in the house, standing over a cast iron skillet stirring the gravy made me think of all the kitchens in my life. Having breakfast with my family as a kid.

Dundee, Scotland - a large, very old kitchen with a low ceiling to keep it warm during the winter.

Old kitchen, old small farm house in Roanoke, Texas with old appliances, tacky linoleum covering the floor, small screened porch off the back where I kept baby raccoons on top of the dryer that I found in a field. The type of screen door and screams and screeches each time it closes. And mom would yell out to everyone, "don't let that door slam shut!" Hot Texas summers, watching my dad from the window over the sink in the arena, training horses. Sand and dust swirling in the air.

My grandmother's kitchen, always a mess (dirty, really, it could have been condemned) always busy with activity and someone cooking something. Big family dinners, after which everyone finds a swamp cooler to nap under.

I have lived in so many houses in my lifetime. Each kitchen filled with good cookin' smells. I love remembering that.