I'm not sure why, but I'm not all that fond of this writing prompt. I can't help but wonder if it's because I didn't really enjoy my kitchen much as a child.
When I was very young it had orange and green flowered wall paper and dark brown cabinets with a light green refrigerator. I would've just been a baby in a high chair at the time facing the sink that had a window right above it. outside the window you could see our backyard and a small woods that would later be chopped down for them to build my future elementary school.
The only thing I remember eating in my high chair is ice cream. I'm sure my mother gave me other healthier foods, but the ice cream was so cold and so sweet and so delicious, that I remember flipping the spoon over in my mouth and gurgle spitting with joy.
When I got older the 70's decor was replaced with traditional 90's decor. Our cabinets were replaced with white ones and we had white flower wallpaper and white and a white and pink tiled floor.
Growing up we always had a dog, usually a German Shepard. The kitchen is where the dog was kept when company came over, or when it came inside with muddy paws or when we were training it to go outside that's where the puppy's crate was kept. I don't think the dog minded much because that's where we were mostly likely to drop food.
I had a small step stool with puppy stickers on it that I used to help bake. My mother would always tie my hair back and make me wear an apron before we began. Then we'd throw ingredient after ingredient into a bowl, usually it involved sugar, oh so sweet sugar, mixed with butter and oil and sometimes chocolate. I'd count the strokes as we stirred it all together...one....two...three....to 60 for brownies, but usually much more for cakes. My mother would pour the sweet batter into a pan and then let me lick the bowl...but I'd always have to back up when the oven opened as I was too afraid the heat would swallow me up and I'd burn away.
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