Write about a kitchen.
28 responses
it always lacked. somehow incomplete, somehow its brokenness peeked through all the decor.
if it wasn’t the incomplete structure, it was the charred walls. the chipped mugs, the inherited pots.
the ladles and spoons merely became something to feed everything that was felt.
to this day, i assume kitchens are makeshift drawers for emotions left unplaced, for figures who didn’t find a place.
mine, i hope, will have shades of fruits and food, and the gentleness of a loud face.
muted ferry
May 10
May 10, 2026 at 11:08 AM UTC
The kitchen is where mom manifested her love for us
In bowls of homemade strawberry oatmeal and late hours spent making cookies for class parties
If houses were bodies
Our kitchen was the heart
shy marsh
May 10
May 10, 2026 at 8:32 AM UTC
kitchen is not for cooking food its for cooking up love
slicing the hate in half while me and my mom share love a kitchen is a place not just of tasting food but of feel love smelling the aroma of having the best mom
copper ridge
May 9
May 9, 2026 at 4:10 PM UTC
Whenever I am hand washing dishes, my mother’s place comes to mind. We never particularly bonded deeply but I think I’m channeling many visits from college times and later. I’d be helping with the washing after a holiday meal and chatting. Not deep love, but a comfortable familiarity and a certain link to those younger days when she was my protector and cared for me in ways we never can fully appreciate until we’re much older.
amber pine
May 8
May 8, 2026 at 12:12 AM UTC
The kitchen is where I find my mom
My grandmothers, too
They're strong, independent
And I love them, through and through
weary magpie
May 7
May 7, 2026 at 11:11 PM UTC
my sleepy feet find the kitchen eagerly
drawn by the promise of a fresh cup of wonder
the tea cabinet is my treasure
spices jostle for space, spilling secrets from the cupboards
the table is a place of reunion
where the day’s weight lifts a little
smiling faces and the Bondi Beach
greet me from the wall - sun-drenched memories
in the corner, the wine, gin and rum bottles wink knowingly
food for soul is cooked in this kitchen
the flavor lingers long after the plates are cleared
late ivy
May 7
May 7, 2026 at 1:23 PM UTC
Torn edges
Splayed on the
Counter
Dried red chiles
Hanging from the rafters
Of an old adobe house
We
The women
Huddled
To read words written
By their fathers
And brothers
In a war
He said the trenches
Are bad but he really misses
Booze
Everyone laughed
Except his
Daughter
Who knew him
Best
That kitchen
Held us
Women
Of the family
restless harbor
May 7
May 7, 2026 at 12:46 PM UTC
Our kitchen
is its own little ship:
my mom, the captain;
my sister, the navigator;
and me--
first mate
in charge of
taste-testing
and dishwashing.
silver magpie
May 7
May 7, 2026 at 5:31 AM UTC
Hanging head down low
Over the open fridge door
Signing loudly
To expel the myth
That spending money
(A lot of money)
When rent and sucheries abound
To sigh in release
That abortions cost money
And healing is looking
Into the fridge
small meadow
May 7
May 7, 2026 at 2:40 AM UTC
For as long as I remember
I stood in the back
Watched your hands into work
Watched as fire cracked in embers
Then heard many sounds
The sound of knife chopping
The sound of instructions
In a language I yet had to learn
Yet, all the adventures
meals laid on tables
stomachs full of love
yet my eyes are set
to the very woman I very much adore
weary creek
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 10:45 PM UTC
she leaves his dinner plate on the kitchen table
his rage fills his hunger instead
dinner is cold
she eats alone
wandering sparrow
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 7:42 PM UTC
small, but never cramped,
no matter how many women existed there
stirring pots and stirring tea
and reminiscing on lives lived before the kids.
the island overflows with holiday bounty
and recipes held in hearts, not hands.
shy shore
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 3:01 PM UTC
................
drifting ferry
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 2:59 PM UTC
the kitchen
is where my mom would teach me
her delicious recipes
it's where the family comes together
to enjoy a home cooked meal
made with love
humble atlas
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 2:38 PM UTC
The morning sun shines through the panes, warming the inviting powder blue interiors.
A smoking hot red kettle with a pout sits ready to whistle.
Tea and coffee are served hot, and in minutes, breakfast is rustled up.
In this warm nook, every morning a ritual of nutrition, love and joy flows, bringing smiles to the faces of your loved ones.
rusted kettle
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 2:31 PM UTC
A cramped, box-like kitchen, contains my mother's love.
Memories painted through grease stains on the wall,
and heaping piles of to-go containers,"saved just in case".
The wilting orchid pot I gifted years ago still sits by the window,
and my "Best Mom Ever" magnet still hangs proudly on the fridge.
Push aside the clutter and you'll find my mother's easel,
where knives and spatulas are paintbrushes,
and ingredients are paint.
"What's the secret ingredient?" I ask,
"Love. It's always been love."
blue stoat
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 1:52 PM UTC
My order is,
Ingredients come out,
Go AWAY!
Scrub, rinse, repeat, repeat, while
Raw, red, ribbons, run down.
One day, I learned about thick, yellow rubber gloves.
SUPERmarket.
Recipes of all different cultures meld together- like you too.
Melting hot.
Tears, and sweet sweat.
Where I learned not to be like you.
What if?
heavy ridge
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 1:13 PM UTC
The kitchen came but once a year.
As aromas of different dishes
Filled the air.
Lack was the name of the game.
And poverty was our daily bread.
But come Christmas Day.
The kitchen was my mother's den.
As she prepared a meal.
Fit for a king.
Every dish scrumptious and good.
Was served to us on Christmas Day.
And that's the story of a kitchen.
That came , once a year.
wandering pine
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 12:48 PM UTC
Coming from a family of 10,the kitchen was a place we weren't in often. That was my mothers domain. I grew up only knowing how to cook a few things but love cooking now and take my grandson in with me to cook now.
dusky elm
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 12:20 PM UTC
I will remember,
upon leaving,
the heat, the teaspoons, and the yellow.
all nine of us.
restless barn
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 8:08 AM UTC
It's small, with not enough counter space for the number of people who use it
It's cluttered, and there's more than one unused appliance
It's used, for sandwiches and soups and dinners we don't eat together anymore
It's enough, because you love it and take care of it
It's enough, because you make sure we're happy with what you make on it
It's enough, because you said it will be
windswept elm
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 7:33 AM UTC
Feels so strange now, but memories take me back to the times of my dad cooking. It wasn't a big kitchen, just enough room to move around. He always cooked Thanksgiving dinner, most times dinner was late. But was worth waiting for. Miss the days of my dads cooking. The kitchen always felt warm and friendly. He always had a smile for you while he was in the kitchen.
copper moss
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 5:21 AM UTC
you don't realize
how much you care,how much you should care
about little things,little moments
it taugh me how to cook
how to keep the tears inside
how to not explode on the dining table
ah dear kitchen
if only you knew
muted pond
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 3:30 AM UTC
in winter we freeze
even in summer its cold
but its always the loudest
not from pots and pans
or the dishwasher
not from the gas
and the food boiling over the side onto the stove
but from the people
there is always room for more
and its loud with chatter
with laughs
and sometimes even tears
but thats ok
cause the kitchen is community
its the heart of any home
frail swallow
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 2:29 AM UTC
I learned to be skilled
I learned to listen
I learned to be focused
I learned to be quiet
I learned to respect
I learned to love
I learned to be like you.
frail moth
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 2:21 AM UTC
it always lacked. somehow incomplete, somehow its brokenness peeked through all the decor.
if it wasn’t the incomplete structure, it was the charred walls. the chipped mugs, the inherited pots.
the ladles and spoons merely became something to feed everything that was felt.
to this day, i assume kitchens are makeshift drawers for emotions left unplaced, for figures who didn’t find a place.
mine, i hope, will have shades of fruits and food, and the gentleness of a loud face.
muted ferry
May 10
May 10, 2026 at 11:08 AM UTC
kitchen is not for cooking food its for cooking up love
slicing the hate in half while me and my mom share love a kitchen is a place not just of tasting food but of feel love smelling the aroma of having the best mom
copper ridge
May 9
May 9, 2026 at 4:10 PM UTC
The kitchen is where I find my mom
My grandmothers, too
They're strong, independent
And I love them, through and through
weary magpie
May 7
May 7, 2026 at 11:11 PM UTC
Torn edges
Splayed on the
Counter
Dried red chiles
Hanging from the rafters
Of an old adobe house
We
The women
Huddled
To read words written
By their fathers
And brothers
In a war
He said the trenches
Are bad but he really misses
Booze
Everyone laughed
Except his
Daughter
Who knew him
Best
That kitchen
Held us
Women
Of the family
restless harbor
May 7
May 7, 2026 at 12:46 PM UTC
Hanging head down low
Over the open fridge door
Signing loudly
To expel the myth
That spending money
(A lot of money)
When rent and sucheries abound
To sigh in release
That abortions cost money
And healing is looking
Into the fridge
small meadow
May 7
May 7, 2026 at 2:40 AM UTC
she leaves his dinner plate on the kitchen table
his rage fills his hunger instead
dinner is cold
she eats alone
wandering sparrow
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 7:42 PM UTC
................
drifting ferry
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 2:59 PM UTC
The morning sun shines through the panes, warming the inviting powder blue interiors.
A smoking hot red kettle with a pout sits ready to whistle.
Tea and coffee are served hot, and in minutes, breakfast is rustled up.
In this warm nook, every morning a ritual of nutrition, love and joy flows, bringing smiles to the faces of your loved ones.
rusted kettle
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 2:31 PM UTC
My order is,
Ingredients come out,
Go AWAY!
Scrub, rinse, repeat, repeat, while
Raw, red, ribbons, run down.
One day, I learned about thick, yellow rubber gloves.
SUPERmarket.
Recipes of all different cultures meld together- like you too.
Melting hot.
Tears, and sweet sweat.
Where I learned not to be like you.
What if?
heavy ridge
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 1:13 PM UTC
Coming from a family of 10,the kitchen was a place we weren't in often. That was my mothers domain. I grew up only knowing how to cook a few things but love cooking now and take my grandson in with me to cook now.
dusky elm
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 12:20 PM UTC
It's small, with not enough counter space for the number of people who use it
It's cluttered, and there's more than one unused appliance
It's used, for sandwiches and soups and dinners we don't eat together anymore
It's enough, because you love it and take care of it
It's enough, because you make sure we're happy with what you make on it
It's enough, because you said it will be
windswept elm
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 7:33 AM UTC
you don't realize
how much you care,how much you should care
about little things,little moments
it taugh me how to cook
how to keep the tears inside
how to not explode on the dining table
ah dear kitchen
if only you knew
muted pond
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 3:30 AM UTC
I learned to be skilled
I learned to listen
I learned to be focused
I learned to be quiet
I learned to respect
I learned to love
I learned to be like you.
frail moth
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 2:21 AM UTC
The kitchen is where mom manifested her love for us
In bowls of homemade strawberry oatmeal and late hours spent making cookies for class parties
If houses were bodies
Our kitchen was the heart
shy marsh
May 10
May 10, 2026 at 8:32 AM UTC
Whenever I am hand washing dishes, my mother’s place comes to mind. We never particularly bonded deeply but I think I’m channeling many visits from college times and later. I’d be helping with the washing after a holiday meal and chatting. Not deep love, but a comfortable familiarity and a certain link to those younger days when she was my protector and cared for me in ways we never can fully appreciate until we’re much older.
amber pine
May 8
May 8, 2026 at 12:12 AM UTC
my sleepy feet find the kitchen eagerly
drawn by the promise of a fresh cup of wonder
the tea cabinet is my treasure
spices jostle for space, spilling secrets from the cupboards
the table is a place of reunion
where the day’s weight lifts a little
smiling faces and the Bondi Beach
greet me from the wall - sun-drenched memories
in the corner, the wine, gin and rum bottles wink knowingly
food for soul is cooked in this kitchen
the flavor lingers long after the plates are cleared
late ivy
May 7
May 7, 2026 at 1:23 PM UTC
Our kitchen
is its own little ship:
my mom, the captain;
my sister, the navigator;
and me--
first mate
in charge of
taste-testing
and dishwashing.
silver magpie
May 7
May 7, 2026 at 5:31 AM UTC
For as long as I remember
I stood in the back
Watched your hands into work
Watched as fire cracked in embers
Then heard many sounds
The sound of knife chopping
The sound of instructions
In a language I yet had to learn
Yet, all the adventures
meals laid on tables
stomachs full of love
yet my eyes are set
to the very woman I very much adore
weary creek
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 10:45 PM UTC
small, but never cramped,
no matter how many women existed there
stirring pots and stirring tea
and reminiscing on lives lived before the kids.
the island overflows with holiday bounty
and recipes held in hearts, not hands.
shy shore
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 3:01 PM UTC
the kitchen
is where my mom would teach me
her delicious recipes
it's where the family comes together
to enjoy a home cooked meal
made with love
humble atlas
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 2:38 PM UTC
A cramped, box-like kitchen, contains my mother's love.
Memories painted through grease stains on the wall,
and heaping piles of to-go containers,"saved just in case".
The wilting orchid pot I gifted years ago still sits by the window,
and my "Best Mom Ever" magnet still hangs proudly on the fridge.
Push aside the clutter and you'll find my mother's easel,
where knives and spatulas are paintbrushes,
and ingredients are paint.
"What's the secret ingredient?" I ask,
"Love. It's always been love."
blue stoat
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 1:52 PM UTC
The kitchen came but once a year.
As aromas of different dishes
Filled the air.
Lack was the name of the game.
And poverty was our daily bread.
But come Christmas Day.
The kitchen was my mother's den.
As she prepared a meal.
Fit for a king.
Every dish scrumptious and good.
Was served to us on Christmas Day.
And that's the story of a kitchen.
That came , once a year.
wandering pine
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 12:48 PM UTC
I will remember,
upon leaving,
the heat, the teaspoons, and the yellow.
all nine of us.
restless barn
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 8:08 AM UTC
Feels so strange now, but memories take me back to the times of my dad cooking. It wasn't a big kitchen, just enough room to move around. He always cooked Thanksgiving dinner, most times dinner was late. But was worth waiting for. Miss the days of my dads cooking. The kitchen always felt warm and friendly. He always had a smile for you while he was in the kitchen.
copper moss
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 5:21 AM UTC
in winter we freeze
even in summer its cold
but its always the loudest
not from pots and pans
or the dishwasher
not from the gas
and the food boiling over the side onto the stove
but from the people
there is always room for more
and its loud with chatter
with laughs
and sometimes even tears
but thats ok
cause the kitchen is community
its the heart of any home
frail swallow
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 2:29 AM UTC
it always lacked. somehow incomplete, somehow its brokenness peeked through all the decor.
if it wasn’t the incomplete structure, it was the charred walls. the chipped mugs, the inherited pots.
the ladles and spoons merely became something to feed everything that was felt.
to this day, i assume kitchens are makeshift drawers for emotions left unplaced, for figures who didn’t find a place.
mine, i hope, will have shades of fruits and food, and the gentleness of a loud face.
muted ferry
May 10
May 10, 2026 at 11:08 AM UTC
Whenever I am hand washing dishes, my mother’s place comes to mind. We never particularly bonded deeply but I think I’m channeling many visits from college times and later. I’d be helping with the washing after a holiday meal and chatting. Not deep love, but a comfortable familiarity and a certain link to those younger days when she was my protector and cared for me in ways we never can fully appreciate until we’re much older.
amber pine
May 8
May 8, 2026 at 12:12 AM UTC
Torn edges
Splayed on the
Counter
Dried red chiles
Hanging from the rafters
Of an old adobe house
We
The women
Huddled
To read words written
By their fathers
And brothers
In a war
He said the trenches
Are bad but he really misses
Booze
Everyone laughed
Except his
Daughter
Who knew him
Best
That kitchen
Held us
Women
Of the family
restless harbor
May 7
May 7, 2026 at 12:46 PM UTC
For as long as I remember
I stood in the back
Watched your hands into work
Watched as fire cracked in embers
Then heard many sounds
The sound of knife chopping
The sound of instructions
In a language I yet had to learn
Yet, all the adventures
meals laid on tables
stomachs full of love
yet my eyes are set
to the very woman I very much adore
weary creek
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 10:45 PM UTC
................
drifting ferry
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 2:59 PM UTC
A cramped, box-like kitchen, contains my mother's love.
Memories painted through grease stains on the wall,
and heaping piles of to-go containers,"saved just in case".
The wilting orchid pot I gifted years ago still sits by the window,
and my "Best Mom Ever" magnet still hangs proudly on the fridge.
Push aside the clutter and you'll find my mother's easel,
where knives and spatulas are paintbrushes,
and ingredients are paint.
"What's the secret ingredient?" I ask,
"Love. It's always been love."
blue stoat
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 1:52 PM UTC
Coming from a family of 10,the kitchen was a place we weren't in often. That was my mothers domain. I grew up only knowing how to cook a few things but love cooking now and take my grandson in with me to cook now.
dusky elm
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 12:20 PM UTC
Feels so strange now, but memories take me back to the times of my dad cooking. It wasn't a big kitchen, just enough room to move around. He always cooked Thanksgiving dinner, most times dinner was late. But was worth waiting for. Miss the days of my dads cooking. The kitchen always felt warm and friendly. He always had a smile for you while he was in the kitchen.
copper moss
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 5:21 AM UTC
I learned to be skilled
I learned to listen
I learned to be focused
I learned to be quiet
I learned to respect
I learned to love
I learned to be like you.
frail moth
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 2:21 AM UTC
The kitchen is where mom manifested her love for us
In bowls of homemade strawberry oatmeal and late hours spent making cookies for class parties
If houses were bodies
Our kitchen was the heart
shy marsh
May 10
May 10, 2026 at 8:32 AM UTC
The kitchen is where I find my mom
My grandmothers, too
They're strong, independent
And I love them, through and through
weary magpie
May 7
May 7, 2026 at 11:11 PM UTC
Our kitchen
is its own little ship:
my mom, the captain;
my sister, the navigator;
and me--
first mate
in charge of
taste-testing
and dishwashing.
silver magpie
May 7
May 7, 2026 at 5:31 AM UTC
she leaves his dinner plate on the kitchen table
his rage fills his hunger instead
dinner is cold
she eats alone
wandering sparrow
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 7:42 PM UTC
the kitchen
is where my mom would teach me
her delicious recipes
it's where the family comes together
to enjoy a home cooked meal
made with love
humble atlas
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 2:38 PM UTC
My order is,
Ingredients come out,
Go AWAY!
Scrub, rinse, repeat, repeat, while
Raw, red, ribbons, run down.
One day, I learned about thick, yellow rubber gloves.
SUPERmarket.
Recipes of all different cultures meld together- like you too.
Melting hot.
Tears, and sweet sweat.
Where I learned not to be like you.
What if?
heavy ridge
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 1:13 PM UTC
I will remember,
upon leaving,
the heat, the teaspoons, and the yellow.
all nine of us.
restless barn
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 8:08 AM UTC
you don't realize
how much you care,how much you should care
about little things,little moments
it taugh me how to cook
how to keep the tears inside
how to not explode on the dining table
ah dear kitchen
if only you knew
muted pond
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 3:30 AM UTC
kitchen is not for cooking food its for cooking up love
slicing the hate in half while me and my mom share love a kitchen is a place not just of tasting food but of feel love smelling the aroma of having the best mom
copper ridge
May 9
May 9, 2026 at 4:10 PM UTC
my sleepy feet find the kitchen eagerly
drawn by the promise of a fresh cup of wonder
the tea cabinet is my treasure
spices jostle for space, spilling secrets from the cupboards
the table is a place of reunion
where the day’s weight lifts a little
smiling faces and the Bondi Beach
greet me from the wall - sun-drenched memories
in the corner, the wine, gin and rum bottles wink knowingly
food for soul is cooked in this kitchen
the flavor lingers long after the plates are cleared
late ivy
May 7
May 7, 2026 at 1:23 PM UTC
Hanging head down low
Over the open fridge door
Signing loudly
To expel the myth
That spending money
(A lot of money)
When rent and sucheries abound
To sigh in release
That abortions cost money
And healing is looking
Into the fridge
small meadow
May 7
May 7, 2026 at 2:40 AM UTC
small, but never cramped,
no matter how many women existed there
stirring pots and stirring tea
and reminiscing on lives lived before the kids.
the island overflows with holiday bounty
and recipes held in hearts, not hands.
shy shore
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 3:01 PM UTC
The morning sun shines through the panes, warming the inviting powder blue interiors.
A smoking hot red kettle with a pout sits ready to whistle.
Tea and coffee are served hot, and in minutes, breakfast is rustled up.
In this warm nook, every morning a ritual of nutrition, love and joy flows, bringing smiles to the faces of your loved ones.
rusted kettle
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 2:31 PM UTC
The kitchen came but once a year.
As aromas of different dishes
Filled the air.
Lack was the name of the game.
And poverty was our daily bread.
But come Christmas Day.
The kitchen was my mother's den.
As she prepared a meal.
Fit for a king.
Every dish scrumptious and good.
Was served to us on Christmas Day.
And that's the story of a kitchen.
That came , once a year.
wandering pine
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 12:48 PM UTC
It's small, with not enough counter space for the number of people who use it
It's cluttered, and there's more than one unused appliance
It's used, for sandwiches and soups and dinners we don't eat together anymore
It's enough, because you love it and take care of it
It's enough, because you make sure we're happy with what you make on it
It's enough, because you said it will be
windswept elm
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 7:33 AM UTC
in winter we freeze
even in summer its cold
but its always the loudest
not from pots and pans
or the dishwasher
not from the gas
and the food boiling over the side onto the stove
but from the people
there is always room for more
and its loud with chatter
with laughs
and sometimes even tears
but thats ok
cause the kitchen is community
its the heart of any home
frail swallow
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 2:29 AM UTC