Kern Carter's Blog, page 48
March 31, 2022
The Kitchen
Photo by Clem Onojeghuo from PexelsA long rustic shelf hemmed the kitchen walls, filled with all sorts of knick-knacks. The shelf began somewhere in the back of the hallway, rounded the corner, moved into the living room, and ended up in the kitchen.
In the kitchen, it hovered above us, filled with untouchable desirables: beautiful floral china teapots, ceramic chickens, roosters, and cows. And most fascinatingly, antique toys!
Every once in a while, our mother would let us play with the tiny baby doll toys. Two teeny plastic shell-pink baby doll twins in a rigid baby blue bed would leave the shelves briefly before being returned back to the shelf to look down over us.
Underneath the shelves were lots of pictures, a banged-up wooden block my father crafted to bear the weight of heavy cast iron skillets on hooks, and a spice rack full of spices — seasoned salt, pepper, garlic, cinnamon, pumpkin pie spice, and Mrs. Dash.
There was a junk drawer filled with forgotten things — pieces of trash, old batteries, rusted pennies, and misplaced tools.
Every space on the counter was taken up by a collection of kitchen things — an oversized microwave, toaster, and canister set, plus Daddy’s newest kitchen gadgets.
I remember eating my father’s delicious buttery sweet rice and biscuits and having to be quiet or stay out of the kitchen when my Mom was making her homemade yeast rolls or baking a cake, lest the cake fell or the rolls didn’t rise.
I recall the smell of seasoned fried potatoes, hoecakes, and rolled-out sugar cookies every year for Christmas. The taste of raw sugar cookie dough picked off of a wooden rolling pin that sat on the table dusted with flour.
The sound of family dinners. The laughter. My father. The time I laughed so hard, I tumbled out of my chair and landed smack on my bottom.
The kitchen, where Daddy spied on quiet feet entering for a midnight treat from his post in the living room. Where he would iron his clothes in preparation for his Sunday morning service and where I learned to cook.
As a child, the kitchen was a place to experiment and a place to enjoy food. It was also a good place to hear “grown folks business.”
The kitchen was a place where you could look out the window to see the fruit trees, birds, and daddy out in the backyard working on his next woodworking project.
Standing in the window, if you looked out to the right, you could see the great big gazebo my father built, the rose and blackberry bushes, and at a sharp right, the grapevine, which now has become a sprawling green and brown beauty in the spring and summer months.
My mother’s kitchen is still a place of laughter, food, and love.
And my kitchen is too.
We don’t iron clothes in our kitchen, but my son listens to “grown folks business” that we discuss there — despite our attempts at whispering.
We make buttery grits and biscuits, homemade yeast rolls, and roll-out sugar cookies — a few times a year.
I got a junk drawer filled with little fragments of papers, paper clips, tacks, nails, debris, forgotten tools, and old batteries.
My countertops are full of kitchen essentials and gadgets—a microwave, air fryer, waffle maker, griddle, and cooking utensils in ceramic blue canisters.
I have a couple of cast iron skillets and more spices than I know what to do with. And if you look out the window, you'd see birdbaths, blueberry bushes, and flowers. If you listen, you can hear the tinkling of wind chimes.
In the summer, you’d also see my husband and son working on some woodworking projects. You’d see dirt tracks on the floor from the kids running in and out of the house, and notice a fragrance in the air that smells good enough to eat!
We have laughed in our kitchen. I washed our baby’s hair in our kitchen sink. Holding the back of her little brown neck, I looked into her eyes and lingered longer than needed so I could engrave her precious baby face permanently into my mind.
We have entertained guests out of our kitchen, using granny’s old cookbook. I have watched my son laugh so hard, he cried in our kitchen.
We have seen mini talent shows and impromptu skits in our kitchen. We’ve had talks in our kitchen.
We don’t have a shelf that travels at the top of our walls like the one from my childhood. There is no shelf full of unattainable goods.
But, we do have the joy, unshelved and wild.
The joy starts way back in our hallway, glides around the corner into the living room, drifts into the dining room, and goes straight into our kitchen.
[image error]The Kitchen was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
March 30, 2022
Farewell To Our Dining Table
Saying goodbye to our dining table was harder than anyone expected.
Call For Submissions — What Do You Hope To Get From Your Writing
We’re all here, but we’re all here for different reasons. I’ve tried to be clear about what I want out of my writing, but that has changed over the years. At first, my only goal was to wake up and write books. Being a full-time novelist was all I cared about. While most of that statement is still true, I’ve found different paths of writing that is bringing me joy.
For this week’s writing prompt, tell us why you write. What do you hope to get out of your writing? Do you want a career? Do you want to be heard? Are you in it for the money? What’s driving you?
Same rules as always:You can submit to this or ANY of our past writing prompts. Just scroll through our previous newsletters. They’ll be marked “Call for Submissions.”If you’re already a writer for CRY, go ahead and submit.Be as creative as you want in your submissions. As long as you stick to the topic, we’ll consider it.Just because you submit doesn’t mean we’ll post. If you haven’t heard back from us in three days, consider that a pass.[image error]Call For Submissions — What Do You Hope To Get From Your Writing was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
I run and I run and I run
I run and I run and I run — toward something or away from it,I cannot be sure.
The Cedar Cradle
Photo courtesy of Sven Brandsma & UnsplashMy father was a builder when I was a kid. He kept a workshop in the yard behind our house.
I used to love being in there. The smell of sawdust in the air, even now, so many years later, is something that immediately recalls my childhood when I smell it.
My father was a quiet man, much more show than tell, and I adored him when I was young, like most young girls do.
My mother was his opposite in that, abrasive and intolerant. So I spent as much time as I could at his side.
Christmas and birthdays were always huge affairs in our house. No matter what other shortcomings they may have had as parents, they definitely made us feel loved and wanted during those times.
I have two older sisters, the oldest is six years older than me and our middle sister is two years older than me.
When Christmas Eve finally rolled around each year, my sisters and I would each pick a couch in our living room and tape a piece of paper to it with our names written on it. That way, Santa knew whose presents went where.
The best Christmas I ever had was when I came down to discover a huge assortment of books I had never read, an aquarium with a fish already in it, a hand-sewn doll made to look like a cabbage patch doll, and a beautiful, cedar cradle for her to sleep in.
Later, I found out that my dad had paid this lady to make the dolls, each one resembling the girl it was made for. The Cedar cradles were something he had built himself, somehow keeping it a secret, which must have been no small feat considering he had three nosey girls who tried to be his shadow as much as possible.
My oldest sister’s doll had brown hair and green eyes, like her. The middle sister’s doll had blue eyes and blonde hair, just like she did. My doll, however, was a newborn and bald on top, made for the youngest child.
I can still smell that cedar cradle to this day. Any time I get the whiff of freshly cut cedar it always makes me feel like I’m that kid again.
My father passed away in 2011 at the age of 64. I helped my mom go over to clean out his house, and in his attic, lovingly covered to protect its finish were our cradles. I later discovered my dad had secretly squirreled the dolls away as well.
Sawdust and fresh cedar are two of my most powerful memories associated with scent. Anytime I smell them I feel like my dad’s right beside me, still making sure he can catch me should I stumble or fall.
[image error]The Cedar Cradle was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
March 29, 2022
A Moment’s Decision Can Change Your Life
It was a big decision but turned out even bigger than I’d thought
Call For Submissions — Childhood Memories
Never will I ever forget the plastic that covered the couches of my living room. It’s one of my fondest and most frustrating childhood memories, including the summers with no air conditioning. My brothers and I ripped ourselves from those couches like we were glued on. It was spectacular.
Before I left for Canada, I had one of those toy horses that you can ride. I’m pretty sure it had a name (I forget what they’re called), but I have memories of being a three year old shaking back and forth while my parents watched and giggled.
For today’s writing prompt, describe a piece of furniture in your childhood home and what it meant to you then and what it means to you now. If you can’t recall a piece of furniture, describe a room or space inside your home that meant and means something.
Same rules as always:You can submit to this or ANY of our past writing prompts. Just scroll through our previous newsletters. They’ll be marked “Call for Submissions.”If you’re already a writer for CRY, go ahead and submit.Be as creative as you want in your submissions. As long as you stick to the topic, we’ll consider it.Just because you submit doesn’t mean we’ll post. If you haven’t heard back from us in three days, consider that a pass.[image error]Call For Submissions — Childhood Memories was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
