Poets In The Kitchen blog

“My Kitchen” by Spencer Darr
I’m not a daughter, nor have I ever pretended to be one, so my time in the kitchen growing up was limited, at least until my first part-time job. I was however a kid who was homeschooled midway through the 3rd grade. That combined with being raised in the Midwest (aka Bible Belt country) I was around a lot of adults who loved to share what they felt, whether it was gossip, politics, or religion. Unfortunately the tradition at our large family holiday celebrations to have an “adult” table and a “kids” table, where the adults would stick my cousins and my brothers and I in the basement or a separate room, while they privately convened. The earliest oral story telling I can remember was from my mom, whom my brothers and I developed a strong relationship with as both our mother and teacher. She would tuck my older brother and me in at night (bunk-beds!) and go at length telling us about her adventures scuba diving, mishaps snow skiing, and embarrassing blunders water skiing. These would leave me with wild images to dream about but I wasn’t yet at the point in my life where I was thinking about storytelling from my own perspective.
As I grew older my love and appreciation for storytelling grew. Luckily my love for reading I had developed as a homeschooled student managed to stick with me through public education. Soon after my mid-adolescence rebellion I began to develop a desire to gather the stories of my older relatives so I could know them personally, as well as eventually pass them on.
I distinctly remember a Christmas vacation when I was able to spend time at my dad’s parent’s home for a few days. It was at a point before I was so old I had to stay home all break to work and just arrived at the point where I actually appreciated the time I spent with my grandparents. Fortunately they were both in good enough health that I was able to sit down and hear both of their life stories thoroughly. My grandma didn’t face the harsh racial barriers like Paule Marshall’s mother, but a quirky gender barrier. Unbeknownst to me, or any members of my immediate family, in high school my grandma had been a star women’s basketball player “back before they even had a three-point line!” as she fondly would put it. Unfortunately she was never given the opportunity to pursue her passion because women’s sports at the time were essentially non-existent. Her husband later joined in and they continued to detail their romance during the WWII, making sure to take little personal jabs at each other (such as my grandpa calling my grandma a cradle-rocker), and inserting the sarcasm and humor usually reserved for quotes from Bobby Bowden. The rhythm and detail involved in their storytelling instantly captivated me and has drawn me back for countless visits, giving me a glimpse into their world growing up, learning about the world at the time, and helping to shape mine.
In Paule Marshall’s “Poets in the Kitchen” she cites a quote that says ”If you say what’s on your mind in the language that comes to you from your parents and your street and friends you’ll probably say something beautiful.” (Marshall) This quote perfectly describes my appreciation for the banal and statements from my friends that I treasure with drug drone like “pine trees are acid” or simply when an old friend obviously stated, “Man I’ve known you a long time… Long enough that I’m going to have to visit you if you move away… I guess we’re old now.” The fact that I’m quoting my friends may be unknown to them but it’s the simplicity and earnest of modern language that harnesses so much beauty and endears me to the authors who I feel like are speaking so directly to me.
I’m a son and that immediately disqualifies me as an eavesdropper on the poets in the kitchen. Thankfully now I get to be one of the poets.

Works Cited
Marshall, Paule. "From The Poets In The Kitchen." No. 18 (Spring-Summer 1983)