A Baby in the Kitchen

There is something about a baby in the kitchen. A wood stove, a golden retriever curled up in a cozy spot, a cat in a sunny window, these are all cozy but to me a baby in the kitchen is the ultimate house warmer. A baby in a basket in a kitchen and I’m a goner.

IMG_1783_2Here is Shep, our last basket baby, looking lots then like Rosie does now.

IMG_9455These days we are all spending lots of time in the kitchen. Its the warmest spot, often the brightest spot and the busiest spot at the Pocket. Shep pulls up his chair and eats his breakfast at the hip of the cookstove just like Owen used to do when he was that size. We fire our stove hot and the 10ish by 20ish inch fire box gets hot, certainly hot enough to cause burns. But the as you move away from the firebox the “extremities” of the stove are much cooler, cool enough to touch or lean against without danger. Any part of the stove that Rosie can reach up to touch is cool enough not to hurt her. We lean against the front to warm are backs and backsides. My friend tells me her mother had a perpetual singe mark on the back of all her bathrobes from leaning against their farmhouse cookstove. As long as they aren’t wearing hand kits and are careful of their little bare necks the kids can lean away.

 20465Here is a sister of our stove, same make and year and foundry. I wonder if 3 year olds ever pulled up little chairs to eat dutch baby at this one?


In other kitchen related news, Rosie has graduated from our laps to her high chair at meal times. She is delighted by all things edible.

IMG_9559 IMG_9566 IMG_9561

And the table is in use all the time, a work surface for Tim as he puts up sheet rock in the family room, a craft surface, a meal surface and an object of affection.


Outside the snow piles higher and higher. Snow day after snow day challenge us to find projects that feel fresh. Thank goodness for the warm kitchen. Thank goodness for dear friends with saunas. Thank goodness the light is getting stronger and lasting longer.



Meanwhile though, I realize how accustomed I’ve become to the baby in the kitchen and to time where someone is always in arms, underfoot, learning to crawl, delighting us all with a toothless smile. A part of me wishes there could always be a baby in this kitchen.



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