Periodically, Ninepatch proposes various themes for contributors letters. Here are the letters we received in response to the 'The Kitchen Table' theme...

I recall many unusual "kitchen tables" when I was in the army during WW II - especially after I went overseas. In April of '43 I was given a permanent assignment to a liaison unit which was comprised of 75 officers and 300 enlisted men. We did not have our own kitchen, so relied on attaching ourselves to other units for food, medical and other services.

We arrived in England in June of '43 and the unit was immediately broken up into small groups and single individuals. We were assigned duties with the British Army in England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales.

I didn't much like the British army food. Their usual main meal consisted of mutton stew (which I considered greasy) brussel sprouts and tea.

For most of my year in England, prior to the invasion of France, I was housed in various English homes. While stationed in Salisbury, Wiltshire (site of the famous Salisbury cathedral), I was housed along with two British soldiers in the home of an English man and his wife. There, breakfast was mostly toast, preserves, an occasional scrambled egg and Spam. (Yes, Spam saved England! It was a very important food during WWII. Shipload after shipload was sent to England. The civilian population had very little meat and Spam was the answer. The armies fed Spam to the troops morning, noon and night!)

Then, in early 1944, I was assigned duty in Warminster, Wiltshire, which is close to the famous Stone Henge of ancient times. Again, I was housed in a private home. Two other American GI's and two British soldiers lived there, too. The lady of the house did her best for our meals. Mostly, we ate Spam, rabbit, brussels sprouts, toast, preserves, and an occasional egg or two. Of course, we drank tea. Breakfast often consisted of toast fried in rabbit grease. I recall the landlady often rode her bike to a nearby town to purchase several rabbits for our meals.

Before the invasion of Omaha, our unit was called together. I was assigned to "A" detachment and landed at Omaha Beach. The last time I saw my entire unit was in England prior to the invasion.

Once in France, we again broke up. We worked with various detachments coordinating, men and supplies. In those days, we often ate only "K rations." This was a meal in a cardboard container about the size of a Cracker Jack box. The K rations of that time consisted of two small flat biscuits, lemon juice powder, a chocolate bar (very heavy in paraffin to prevent melting), a small tin of egg/ham mixture (breakfast), or pork-- Spam?-- (dinner), four cigarettes, toilet paper, and a stick of gum.

As before, when we could, we went to various units for food, medicines, and clothing. While I was stationed in Cherbourg, France I was invited to chow aboard a Navy ship. What a treat that was! We ate real eggs (not powdered ones), fruit, juice, coffee, meat ( not rabbit or Spam), and cake. Wow, I still smile when I recall that day).

Another day I entered the famous Mont St. Michael 's monastery off the coast of Brittany with two other GI's. The monastery is on the end of a causeway which juts out into the English Channel. There is a narrow spiral street which ascends to the towering structure which sits at the top. The street has some homes, and shops facing it and is a popular tourist attraction.

After scouting the monastery in the company of a monk, we three stopped at a café along the street. Sitting down, we leaned our rifles against the wall and ordered egg omelets. (Nowadays, that same café is world famous for its omelets!)

Prior to being discharged, each returning GI was promised a TEN COURSE DINNER. I had mine, too. The funny thing is, I don't really remember much about it.

Le (Feb.'05) adds, "During my three years in the army, I developed a constant craving for fresh vegetables like we used to have at home -- especially celery."

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Cooking was my mother's creative art. She took great pride in her desserts, especially her lemon and cocoanut crème pies she topped with two-inch-high meringue. She had a Tupperware pie carrier which she always used for transporting her masterpieces.

During my mother's last years, she gave up her car and I drove her to family gatherings, church dinners and other covered- dish occasions. For years, each time I reached for her pie tote she warned me, again, not to pick it up by the side handles, or the top would come off and spill the pie.

My mother did not accept correction well, so I handled the carrier as she instructed. Finally, one day in a casual, offhand way, I said to her, "Do you think maybe if you turned the carrier upside down, it might work better?"

A look of astonishment came over her face as her mouth dropped open. "You reckon I've been using it upside down all this time?"

"I think so," I nodded.

And we laughed together.

June Poucher (Oct.'05) reflects: "It was a special moment we shared. I was relieved my know-it-all mother could see humor in the situation."

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The little porcelain-topped table was not large, about three feet by four, nestled under the window in our Pennsylvania kitchen. Our larger family table was where we sat to eat our meals and sat in the middle of the floor.

The smaller one was a work and gathering center for the females of the house. Here, most of the food preparation occurred: dough rolled and cut for pies, doughnuts and cookies; peaches and tomatoes poached and peeled for canning; home-made noodles stretched and dried.

Here, I also did my homework, loving the crisp lines my sharp pencil lead made on the table's hard porcelain surface. Here, I also tried experiments with my chemistry set, even starting a small fire on one occasion. Here, in the late afternoon, I loved to find mother alone at the table, peeling potatoes. I would pick up a knife and help her, chattering about my day, absorbing her wisdom eagerly, and basking in her vibrant aura which seemed to expand to enfold and celebrate me -- unconditionally.

One day I sought her out, wanting to enlighten her with an amazing piece of knowledge I had gleaned from the set of encyclopedias she had "bought on time" for her girls. I wanted her to be the first to know about this life-changing information. Perhaps, secretly, I also wanted to shock her out of her complacent space just a little. After all, I was approaching adolescence and discovering a larger world than our little neighborhood.

"Mom," I said. "There is no God!"

"And how do you know this?" she asked, not looking up from her work.

"Well, in the science section of the encyclopedias it says that the universe started with a large ball of matter that exploded, creating millions of suns and planets, and that's how the earth was created. So you see, the Bible was wrong about God creating the earth, and I'm beginning to think it was wrong about a lot of things, including," here I paused for effect, "whether there is even a God at all!"

Mother kept peeling.

"Well," I demanded, "What do you think of that?" I expected astonishment at my brilliant deduction, maybe a request for further enlightenment, or possibly a quote from her extensive knowledge of the Bible to present a counter argument. I instead beheld her serenely peeling away.

She replied only, "If you say so."

I made another run at her, repeating my premise, making sure she understood all of its "weighty" ramifications , trying to get some kind of response.

She said only, "If you say so," then got up to rinse the potatoes.

I felt a lot of things -- most of all, disappointment at getting no clear response from her, nothing, from someone who always had shared her thoughts freely with me. It was clear, though, that the "big bang theory" hadn't made a dent in her belief in God.

Suddenly I felt loneliness, like a feisty chick who finds itself unceremoniously pushed from the nest. There was no rebuke from Mother, not even a concerned look my way. I was on my own. Stymied by her manner, but unsatisfied, I returned to the encyclopedias.

I realized later that Mother and I had come to a parting that day. She knew it was time for me to find my own way in the world of ideas without her. She was content with her truth about the "big questions," but willed me forward to find my own.

She was right. Searching out and forging my own life view has made it more precious to me than anyone else's thoughts I might have accepted wholesale. Though I didn't fully realize the value of her gift until after she was gone -- and we never discussed it -- I came to see it as the generous gesture it was. Mother set me loose that day to explore all of the knowledge I could glean from the universe without and within. She trusted me to find my way, knowing she had found hers.

When I see an old porcelain table, I think back to those precious afternoon hours with Mother, and the day she set me free to fly so many years ago.

Joan H. (June '05) adds, "Mother once said she was sorry they couldn't give me any money for college. That was the day I squeezed her hard and said, "You gave me all I needed."

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When I saw the topic, THE KITCHEN TABLE had come up, the first thing I thought of was the game my father and I used to play. He had a huge encyclopedia -- what we always called 'the big book.' While I did the dishes in the evening, he'd sit himself at the kitchen table and use it to quiz me on everything from species of animals to word spelling and meanings. Once the dishes were done, I'd sit with him at the kitchen table and we'd play my favourite part of the game. I'd close my eyes and circle my hand over a world map and then point to some place. When I opened my eyes and saw where my finger pointed, I was expected to tell him something about that country, ocean, or what have you. Of course, I was never very knowledgeable, but Dad would help me out and, more often than not, he'd also tell me stories about the places.

By playing our game, I learned about everything from pirates to how the World Wars got started. I also learned about far away places and people, and events that happened long ago, but that somehow and sometimes affected me… And always, my dad seemed to find a way to help me see the adventure and the wonder in these distant times and lands.

Dad passed away years ago, and I eventually gave 'the big book' (one of the few things I had of his) to my little sister. The book is gone, but I've still got my memories of our games and the wonderful, imaginary adventures Dad and I had while sitting at our kitchen table.

Lynn/TROR (Feb. '05) adds, "The best lesson Dad taught me before he passed away was how to 'question'. That lesson's shaped my life. Now, when I miss him, I picture him captaining a sailing ship and exploring the furthest reaches of heaven ... and I smile ... and think one day I'll join him and we'll share the adventure."

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My kitchen table is one of my favorite places in the house. The table itself is an old oak table that was in the basement of the house where I grew up. One of my sons rescued it from its retirement and refinished the rather marred, old tabletop. He put a "bar" finish on it and replaced the legs with a pedestal. That was twenty years ago and I have been using it ever since. It still looks beautiful.

My chair faces a window, and that's where I have my bird feeders and suet. There's a regular small bird feeder with sunflower seeds and also a thistle feeder for the finches. I not only get to watch lots of birds, but I also can watch the ingenious squirrels that raid the sunflower seeds. Needless to say, I have mixed feelings about these marauders, but it's fun to try to outsmart them -- even though I haven't succeeded, yet!

A pile of books sits next to the lamp on my right by the wall. Several candles and holders grace the back-center of the table. A wooden fruit bowl occupies the rear on the wall side and on the far side of that stands a plate holder. This plate stand holds some of the many cards I receive. (I need to add that I am a letter/note writer of the old school, and honor many cards I get.)

The rest of the table is sometimes clear -- when I've finished all my projects in process! The clear space on the table often has several piles of 'to do' and 'to take' business as well as a few cards and/or pictures I've just received. A roving salt shaker and pepper grinder complete the table's contents.

If my kitchen table could talk, it would have many stories to tell. It is where I read tea leaves, serve dinners, talk on the telephone and do much meditative and fun reading.

I believe in kitchen tables where people gather to talk, pray, laugh and cry

Palma (Sept.'04) adds, "In the spring of '04, when the war in Iraq was underway, I was clearing out some old National Geographic maps that I had saved for years. I ran into one labeled, "Turmoil in the Mideast", from September 1980. I taped it to the wall by my table and burned a candle every day to honor those people -- ours and theirs -- who were experiencing warfare."

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There it sits in my mind. The table has a silver metal base with a round, white Formica top about forty-two inches across the middle. The side chairs are maple, Early American, low-spindle backs with a hand-hold in the top cross-bar. The arm rests are worn down to the bare wood from years of elbow-resting during morning coffee.

My mother's kitchen table was used for morning coffee, food preparation, and an extra buffet space for family get-togethers. Though the set didn't match, she liked the functionality of the Formica top and the comfort of the wooden chairs--especially when a soft seat cushion was added.

My mother was barely 5' 1" and ninety-five pounds. The kitchen counters were too high for her to adequately roll the tortillas, knead pizza dough, slice tomatoes or grate cheese. So, the kitchen table was pressed into service as her primary meal preparation space.

I married and moved to another state when I was nineteen years old. My mother died when I was forty-nine and, except for one year after a divorce, I never lived in my home town again. Over those thirty years I probably went home to visit less than twenty-five times. What I remember best from every single visit is sitting at the kitchen table -- me be in my pajamas and mom in her gown, robe, and slippers. There, we chatted over morning coffee. For some reason those early morning talks were vulnerable and deep -- very different from chats over lunch, dinner, or during our little window-shopping trips. During that early morning kitchen table sharing, family secrets were revealed, emotions explored, and hurts salved.

When there were others in the house, our talks started even earlier so we could visit alone. In later years when she lived alone, our pattern was already set (See top, next.) so we still got up early and took our places. Tradition, I guess.

Mom liked her coffee hot, hot, hot. In earlier years, she got up to re-heat it on the stove but, once she had a microwave, she repeatedly popped it in for a minute or two. I, on the other hand, let mine go stone cold. Sipping away, I also drank in her beautiful face and wisdom, knowing that it would be too long before I sat at the table again.

Georgene (July '05) adds, "I miss my mother very, very much. We often talked on Sundays by phone. She died several years ago and now my Sundays are too quiet."

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Recently, I was cleaning out kitchen cabinets when I came across my old grease can from the '50's. It is a round squat container made of pure aluminum.

On the front, in fifties -style bas relief letters, it says grease; not shortening or oil but an honest, straight- forward "grease." Someone gave it to me at a kitchen shower when I married. That was a time when every Southern kitchen had a receptacle for bacon fat, or sometimes it was lard. We fried everything, then strained the fat and saved it for re-use. The only exception was grease in which fish or seafood had been fried. The lingering odor made it unusable.

My grandmother had a three quart lard can on a shelf by her wood stove. She used the bacon fat to season vegetables, to make biscuits, and to fry all kinds of meat, and some vegetables, such as okra, squash, eggplant, potatoes and sweet potatoes.

Decades later, when we learned it was not healthy to use bacon fat or to fry so many of our foods, I switched to vegetable oils and the grease can became obsolete.

I puzzled over the reasons why I had kept it; and what I could use it for now. It reminds me what an awful time I had learning to cook; all the food I burned, and how I could never coordinate different dishes so that all of a meal was ready at the same time. I did eventually learn to cook fairly well but I never learned to like it.

As I held the little grease can in my hand, it was a reminder of who I was so many years ago. I thought of all the changes that have happened in my life since that time. I have grown and evolved in so many ways; most of my fears have vanished; my confidence has grown, my ideas have matured, my boundaries are more clear, and my spiritual beliefs have changed considerably. I have moved on. That person I was does not exist anymore, except in memory -- and the person I am today has no need for a grease can. It has served its purpose. It will be recycled, as I have been.

June Poucher (Jan. '05) adds: I am fond of a comment made by the actor, Ossie Davis on the TV program, 'Touched by an Angel.' He said, "People don't keep things for what they are, but for how they make them feel."

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