Introduction

This week I'm back at my parents’¹ house. For dinner, I cooked some shrimp and vegetables with polenta.

Part 1: I don't like polenta

The first comment my mom made as I scooped the polenta into a bowl was that it did not look very appetizing. To be honest, I don't care much for polenta either.

The one thing I can remember from the first time I tried polenta was the woman who sat next to me. “I love polenta,” the woman declared, nostalgia glittering in her eyes. I could tell she had fond memories of polenta, because the polenta I tasted was flavorless mush. That, or the chef had a vendetta against my taste buds.

Perhaps I just haven't had good polenta. After cooking it from scratch, whisk and all, I can confidently say that I have yet to have good polenta. I must profess I don't have much familiarity for mashed potatoes turned corn. Perhaps it's because I've grown up entirely without it. After all, polenta comes from Italy, and I don't.

Part 2: I miss my kitchen

In the grand scheme of kitchens, my apartment's kitchen really isn't that good. It's pretty cramped, so my roommate and I can't really use it at the same time. It's also poorly ventilated, meaning if I cook with aromatics, or God forbid fish sauce, people will know. The counter space is almost enough (almost), and I suspect something is off with the oven.

At the end of the day (yes I do caramelize shallots past midnight, thanks for asking), it's my kitchen. I know where everything is, from the knives to the measuring cups to the strainer I rarely use. I know which pots and pans go on which size circles of the electric stove. I even remember we keep a broken can opener in the second drawer. We borrowed one from our downstairs neighbor at least a year ago, and then promptly broke it. We have a working one in the same drawer; I just think it's really funny.

My kitchen is more than that physical space, though. It's the memory of that one time I boiled pork bone broth for 18 hours in the heat of summer (at the, let's say, displeasure of my roommate, then vegetarian). It's the image of how it looked before the landlord installed a microwave above the oven or the fake marble texture on the counters. It's the cathartic sizzle of sautéing another pan of vegetables. It's the quiet sitting alone eating dinner before my roommate gets back from whatever they're doing (probably working), where the uneven distribution of lamps almost makes a sort of mood lighting.

Conclusion

I've been with my kitchen for almost three years now. We're going to separate when I move out in May. One day, my kitchen will be able to hold more than barely two people, and it will have a cast iron pan and a box grater and more than one bottle of oil. Maybe then I'll have forgetten about the little quirks. And who knows, I might even learn to like polenta.