Last fall, my parents bought and moved into their dream retirement home. They love it, and we couldn’t be happier for them. But it’s often difficult for adult children to lose their childhood homes, though it’s just a structure; walls, windows, a roof. Now and then my siblings and I confess to missing the old house. For me, it’s because that old house had the drunk kitchen.
The drunk kitchen. It’s the place where moms, sisters, daughters, and girlfriends gather with their bottles of wine.
It’s the room men avoid when a family gets together for Thanksgiving dinner. In a pinch, the guys might send in the youngest to take one for the team and quickly gather every bag of potato chips he can find.
At times, daughters are reprimanded and sisters are defended. When I’m in the drunk kitchen, I actually like all of my sisters-in-law.
It’s the place were new ideas are born. And newborn babies are adored.
The drunk kitchen has been known to help the raging, nearly out-of-control momster reclaim her sanity.
For some reason, my mom has always been the keeper of our family’s drunk kitchen. I don’t know why but the magic hasn’t yet traveled to another kitchen.
I’ve tried to make it happen. I drink wine in my own kitchen with the girls. But it’s not the same. And in my failed attempts to create a new sisterhood sanctuary, I secretly panic and wonder where my daughter’s drunk kitchen will someday be.
A few weeks ago, I met my parents at the old house while a realtor inspected every room, nook and utility to prepare it for sale. There was nothing left but three kitchen chairs.
We sat in those three chairs for a bit. My mom, my daughter and I. We talked about the past. We talked about the future. We made one last memory to be recorded in the walls of that old drunk kitchen.
Does your family have one?