Mary Belk: We took pride in our pantries

In my memories of long ago, most houses had a pantry off the kitchen. The kitchens were large and roomy workrooms, the heart of the home. Pantries were small, compact supply rooms the size of large walk-in closets, cul-de-sacs of rough hand-hewn pine shelves reinforced with an arsenal of home-canned fruits, vegetables and preserves.

A trip to the pantry meant crossing the wide expanse of a cozy kitchen filled with a cornucopia of fragrances, catching a whiff of sizzling bacon, sweet-smelling peaches waiting to be baked in deep-dish pies and crisp-browned cinnamon toast coming out of the oven. On the back of the stove sat a big brown pot roast gently bubbling and a tea kettle heating up, its lid bumping up and down like a child on the back of a fat pony.

In one corner, the smell of liquid starch and freshly pressed cotton lingered around the ironing board after a session with a flock of crisp little dresses and stiff white shirts. Nearby was the aroma of baby formula, fresh folded diapers and talcum powder. Over the porcelain sink, big windows let in light exposing the cluttered counter-tops. A rainbow of carrots, squash and blood-red tomatoes sprawled in the sun like a gaggle of teenagers on the beach. Pantry space was limited so the delicacies stowed away in Mason jars were scrunched shoulder to shoulder — fig preserves, watermelon-rind pickles, and diced tomatoes.

When I consider my grandmother, who had only summer fruits and homegrown vegetables and could keep just carrots and turnips and potatoes fresh in the cellar, our age seems like something dreamed up by Jules Verne. Nowadays we can get strawberries in February, asparagus in March, peas in April and oranges all the year around.

Our refrigerators hold frozen blueberries and broccoli and jugs of factory-squeezed orange juice. Rows of canned soup, sliced bread and Smucker’s jelly sit on our fake-wood shelves.
Scrubbed Formica counter tops are edged with a battery of electric toasters, coffee makers and half a dozen other automatic gadgets, including a microwave oven. Our generation of anti-cooks emphasizes specialty doodads and shelves of cookbooks unspotted by use. Kitchens have become showrooms with ruffled curtains over the chromium sink. The color of the stove matches the wallpaper, and there are rows of spice bottles in a mahogany rack. Copper-bottomed pots and pans hang from hooks.

The modern kitchen has become a place of beauty rather than a workplace. Out of immaculate ovens will never come a soufflé or a loaf of homemade bread. These bright cubicles are no longer the heart of the home, not rooms to live in but places to get away from.

If you ever come across a real kitchen, you’ll know it by its fragrances and clutter — a jumble of fruit rinds, piecrust shavings, egg-spotted bowls, untidy beaters, unwashed serving spoons, vegetable scrapings; the whole stove occupied with things stewing, simmering, blanching, sautéing, bubbling in pots. It won’t be neat. It won’t be fancy. But there’ll be something sweet-smelling twirling in a bowl and something savory baking in the oven. And of course, there’ll be a well-stocked pantry nearby.

Mary Belk lives in Auburn and writes a column for the Opelika-Auburn News.