“My kitchen is a mystical place, a kind of temple for me. It is a place where the surfaces seem to have significance, where the sounds and odors carry meaning that transfers from the past and bridges to the future.” ♥ Pearl Bailey
Here I am in my “temple,” making “Curried Pumpkin Pots” from my Autumn Book. I look like a mountain in Vermont in that apron, but I love it . . . I am a fall festival all by myself in my kitchen! The third best place for me after we got home. Number one, was of course, seeing my kitty; number two, we needed to go out on our walk and see how everything was doing out at the pond; and number 3, into the kitchen to nest like crazy and get ready for the holidays.
When I pull a card from my recipe box, where there are recipes from my mom, my dad, and my grandma inside, (and chocolates I saved from the QEII and a note from my girlfriend Sarah) and pick up one of my old wooden cooking spoons, I go right into that “significance,” where the “past bridges to the future.”
There’s no better time of year to feel that connection and all the traditions that come along with it, than now. And there is no better time for the nesting part of it, than when you are home (home!) from a long journey; you’re alone in your kitchen, with your birds scurrying around the feeders just outside the windows; your guy is making hammering noises outside on the rose arbor (men making hammer noises, or lawn mowing noises is an aphrodisiac to me), because right that moment you know that all is right with the world. ♣
But all is not quite right if your cutting board looks like this, not really! I promised you I would write about keeping your wooden things looking healthy, so this is the day; and here is the “before” photo! Because #1, I love my cutting boards and old spoons and #2, I really couldn’t be making beautiful fall food with dried up wooden things . . . it’s really just not done! 🙂 (I’m nesting, leave me alone.)
I’ll show you the cutting board first, because it’s basically the same method for the spoons . . . the thing that solves the problem is Mineral Oil. Because, unlike other kinds of oil, it will not go rancid. You can get it at the supermarket, or at the drug store, and keep it under your kitchen sink.
You can already see how much better the wood looks under the puddle of oil!
I use a pastry brush to paint the oil on. And since it has a wooden handle too, I soak the brush part in a bowl of hot water and dish soap when I’m done . . . no dishwasher for wooden things, it dries them out, takes all the color out of them, removes the patina of chicken soup and creamed butter and sugar, all those cookie juices you worked so hard to instill into these things. Just a quick hand washing for them is fine.
The cutting board is done; now here is the “before” picture for one of my favorite spoons . . . a spoon that knows all my cooking secrets and the inside story of every dinner party I’ve ever given. A very good girl.
And now, she is oiled. We let her sit, absorbing, while we do the others.
This takes no time at all. After they’re all done I let everything soak up the oil for a couple of hours; it will all disappear. See the “Sue” spoon in the middle? My dad made that with his own two hands. ♥ You can also find old wooden spoons, even handmade ones, sometimes in antique stores, and all they need is a good soapy washing and some mineral oil to bring them back to life, carrying all their cooking history with them, adding more “mystical” to your kitchen.
This pig board is another thing that’s been with me through thick and thin and cheese parties and sparerib servings too. I got him when I was in my early twenties and he’s followed me everywhere, from California to Martha’s Vineyard, from small apartment to New England house, through cookbook writing and Joe-meeting too. ♥
I never use wooden cutting boards for raw meat or fish, I have a plastic one for that. But every once in a while I will clean my wooden boards by sprinkling salt on them, rubbing them with lemon juice, then drying them well before I oil them.
Deep dark and delicious, that’s what they look like when they’re done. Ready to return to their spot next to the stove, ready for the holidays, ready to help bring the past, through favorite old recipes (my grandma’s Turkey Stuffing!), into the future, again, for another holiday season. ♥
Now your turn. I have a very special wooden thing that I think fits right into the realm of mystical-kitchen making, although, in the end, it will be up to you to complete the picture. It’s a starter kit, and truly one-of-a-kind, a little original piece of art in my mind . . .
Would you like to have this? I’m a big rescuer of old wooden recipe boxes. I can’t bear to leave them behind when I see them in antique stores, especially if they have some family’s collection of recipes in them. So I give them for gifts. When I found this one, it had divider cards in it and a few recipes; of course I have no idea where it came from, because like quilts, recipe boxes aren’t signed. 🙁 I made it a little more homey by writing words on the divider cards; I added my recipe for Sweet 
Potato Casserole (it’s used, as you will see; it came out of my box) . . . I also put in the words to the song Cinderella sang, a dream is a wish your heart makes, that I keep in my own box. ♥ One of you should have this box is what I think. It has plenty of extra cards in it for your own recipes. I wish I could do one for all of you, but I don’t have that many! It’s a way to say thank you for giving me such a wonderful welcome home! It’s so fun doing this blog and knowing you’re out there!!! As soon as I find out the name of the winner I will write a note on the little gift card that you see under the box, and tuck it inside. ♥
All you have to do to enter the drawing for this box is leave me a comment telling all of us about your favorite holiday tradition. Or, even just say hi, and you’re entered! You may already have a recipe box, but maybe you want to add your own recipes to this one for your daughter, son, niece or nephew. (If you’re one of the Daring Girls Club, tell your moms about this so they can enter and do it for you! :-)) And then be sure to sign the box with your name and the year. ♥ xoxo
It will fly off Martha’s Vineyard into your hands — we’ll wait a couple of days for everyone to have a chance to see this posting, then we’ll draw the winner and the wooden box will come, from my mystical kitchen to yours . . .
The topography changes as we cross the country, from desert to farmlands, to cities, then deep woods; but no matter where we were, it was the same moon shining in on us. Here it is coming up over New Mexico.
We had a delicious dinner during our layover on Thursday in Chicago (at Big Bowl, delicious Pad Thai, with coconut ice cream for dessert); slept like babies while winding past the Great Lakes; all day Friday we had gorgeous views of leaves, rivers, lakes, and red barns while speeding through upstate New York and the Berkshires.
Hello man out there. The room with a view lives up to its name. The train is late, but we don’t care.
Because we’re watching the beautiful world go by.
And then the drama begins: we know now, we’re going to miss the last ferry boat to the island. It was always going to be close. We were supposed to get off the train in Worcester (pronounced Woosta, by the way) at about 7 pm; we’d hired a car to come collect us (for the two hour drive from the train station to the ferry) and maybe, we hoped, we’d just make the last boat home to the island. But the train is two and a half hours late; there’s no chance we’ll make it. We have to get a motel for the night and take the first morning boat. No kitty. Whimpering noises could be heard. I petted Joe and told him not to cry. 
It was raining when we got off the train; the driver was waiting for us — with our first surprise of the evening; their regular car was out on another job, so they sent a long, really long, embarrassing actually, like prom night, stretch limo to pick us up! That was fun! The driver also knew we were too late to make the last boat; we started to tell him what motel to take us to. That’s when we got the second surprise; he told us he had called and found out that if we wanted, for the same price as a motel room, “Captain Jim” was willing to take us over to the island tonight (even though it was going to be near midnight) in one of the Patriot boats (a 24 hour shuttle service to the island which we never heard of before). OH BOY!!! We are ecstatic. What a surprise! Yes!!! Sign us up! Girl Kitty here we come!!!
We drove through the rainy night, us in the back, sitting in pure luxury (about six blocks from the driver), across the Bourne Bridge onto Cape Cod, and then into Falmouth at almost midnight, down to the dock to where the Patriot Boat was tied. The car backed right up to the boat, where we start unloading our bags, while I, for the first time, as the wind about blew me off the dock, got a look at the boat that is supposedly going to take us across the deep, deep, really cold and choppy water to the island. Hmmm, I said to myself. Wouldja look at that.
At first I don’t even think it’s a boat. It takes a moment for grasping the situation. It’s bobbing up and down, nudging the dock, the storm has just passed so the wind that blew it away, is now UP, the water around the boat is black and choppy with white caps, and I am questioning everyone’s sanity. It’s way past my bedtime, my thinking-thing is messed up; I’m giddy with the idea of going home, prudence and caution has left the building. Joe is saying, “It’s OK.” Captain Jim looks normal. He is very experienced. He does this every day at 4 am, for starters, to deliver the newspapers to the island … including all winter long. And of course, Girl Kitty is waiting.
The suitcases are loaded, and we are supposed to go into that little door, down the stairs, to the little row of wooden benches, and experience the trip in a dark room, at sea level, or below — right now, in port the waves lapped at the windows. Fifteen minutes ago we were in the lap of luxury, now we were bobbing up and down in the dark briny night; with clanging noises, scudding clouds, blustery waves, and sea spray. The good news is, the big ferry takes 45 minutes for this trip; on this boat, it will be only 20 minutes. I can do almost anything for 20 minutes.
Goodbye cruel world I say to myself. The engines start, and for the first minute and a half, we stay outside to take pictures as we pull away from the dock, but then we realize how stupid this is because we can’t stand upright, no one has offered life jackets, so we get ourselves inside.
It was nice to see the moon. But it was very dark out there. We didn’t stay in the below-sea-water unlit room, we went up front with Captain Jim, so we had the view out the front windows. I kept my eyes, like a lasor, on the tiny lights of the island twinkling in front of us . . . we plowed through the waves, going up, down, slam! Up, sideways, down, slam! And so it went, salt spray blowing over the boat, metal parts echoing and clanking, floor shuddering, me holding on for dear life.
We are not in Kansas anymore.
Look how close! Giddiness is beginning to return to my heart. Home! I could almost swim this if necessary!
Our hero, Captain Jim Scudder, getting us to shore.
Docking the boat in the safe harbor of Oak Bluffs . . .
And a civilized cab to take us home . . .
Joe helps cast off, and Captain Jim heads back out to sea, with a ton of gratitude to take home with him to his own bed . . . And us?
We go home too . . .
And Girl Kitty helps us unpack. 
We spent all day yesterday in Domesticity City, putting things away, looking at the mail, making chicken stock, cutting parsley and marigolds from the garden, filling the bird feeders, saying hello to the house, walking out to the pond, all the things people do when they’ve been gone a long time and are grateful for home sweet home.
