An Afternoon in Sophie’s Kitchen
We entered from the back door, through a small pantry and then into a kitchen strewn with a bright, varying blue tile backsplash and a smile that could have warmed us brighter than the wood burning fire that was blazing on the wall to our right. Her mom was the epitome of warmth and the kitchen reflected just that. A TV in the corner played an obscure British game show, flowers and plants clustered together in animal shaped pots on the window and various tea cups and jars lined the cabinet tops.
“I’ve just made a pot of tea, pull up a chair and get comfortable. Jordan, at the very least put on some socks.” The last part wasn’t a question, much more of an order, but I already loved her despite meeting her just hours before, so I obliged. We had just been out back breaking up different pieces of wood for the fire, and I had done it all barefoot.
As we sat, my senses danced. The smell of apples, cinnamon, smoke from the fire and more recently, black tea overwhelmed me with joy.
Nadia nodded her head towards the table, as if saying ‘sit down’ and questioning ‘how do you take your tea’ all at once. We had this type of telepathy. She and the third to our trio, Liza, had been the only two people beyond my mother that could read my thoughts, and mine, theirs. There’s a sense of comfort to this type of sisterhood you crave when you’re an only child, and I had it, and still do, with them.
“Milk and sugar.” I said, without taking my eyes off of her mother. She worked with the ease of someone who had baked a thousand pies before, the kind of ease that made you want to sit and watch, soak it all in.
I wrapped both hands around the cup as she handed it to me. Steam curled up like ribbons dancing in the dimmed light. The table was lined with a white tablecloth, covering a scarred surface from years of conversation, elbows and togetherness.
Just as Nadia had settled into her chair tucked next to the fire, the timer went off. I remember thinking that she doesn’t even need that anymore, that it’s there just in case one of her children distract her.
She pulled the pie out of a section of her large burgundy-colored oven, the crust perfectly golden, somehow making the kitchen smell even richer, warmer, more welcoming.
“I’m on time then.” Roared a high pitched voice from the other room. I had heard the front door close, but somehow was so in the moment, I hadn’t thought about who was coming in. It was Christa, her sister, who had rather quickly, become a close friend of mine, too.
We waited as Nadia helped ladle custard into bowls, the thick, pale gold sauce pooling around each slice. I could feel them all watching me as I took my first bite. Soft apples, crisp crust, the silkiness of warm custard melting over it all—I felt something deep in my chest loosen.
“Good?” Sophie asked, a knowing twinkle in her eye. I could tell she cooked for others. It wasn’t the joy of being in the kitchen, although she liked that too, but the nourishment and love that she could provide to others.
I swallowed, and nodded. “It’s perfect.” Hoping they didn’t noticed that I had in fact teared up a bit.
Outside, the sky faded into dusk, the kind of soft, bruised blue that signaled the end of a good day. It was an ordinary weekend for them, I’m sure, but the memory of this visit, this moment, will be etched into my mind forever.