The Kitchen

I remember my aunts kitchen in a Georgian house on the Southside of Dublin City. From the large white front door to the three steps at the end of the hall that led to the kitchen was about a six minute walk. The kitchen was a square room with a table in the middle. A red stool below the small window. Where I would sit and chat with her while she went about preparations. Behind the door were three shelves, home to various ornaments Cupboards and cooker, along with hanging utensils stood against one wall. The floor carpeted. My aunt who was a head cook in one of the cheshire homes, cooked and baked delicious food for her visiting family in this cosy kitchen. The walls seem to hold the rich smells of her cooking. Our conversations. Off this kitchen was a small scullery where I helped wash up. I still hear her voice say, the jangling of your bracelets is irritating.