Even if you grew up in the city, there’s probably something familiar about a farmhouse kitchen.
I grew up in rural Oklahoma, and still, every time I see a farmhouse-style kitchen, I am reminded of my Granny’s haven. I was only 5 years old when she died, but I still remember her kitchen.
It wasn’t fancy. In fact, it was the opposite of fancy. It had an old ’50s-style table, and in my memory, there is a pie in the center of it, covered with a muslin tea-towel.
It was in that room my Granny made and canned plum jelly that would make you want to risk a thousand deaths just to have another taste.
Her house was an itty, bitty one. It was the Coyote Trail homestead of a coon hunter and his bride, both characters in their own right.
The beds were covered with Granny’s gorgeous quilting handiwork. The windows had plastic on them to keep out the winter wind’s howl. And along the walls of the living room, up by the ceiling, were shelves. On those shelves were photo frames and photo frames and photo frames. It seemed like a million frames to a 5 year old. The smiles of her children and grandchildren wrapped all the way around the room, from one end to the other, all the way to the door that led to the kitchen.
Granny’s house: It was built from hardscrabble roots, but what it was lacking in material possessions, it made up for in laughter.
In a roundabout way, that’s what I think of when I see photos like these.
My kindhearted granny and her tiny castle.