What is it that makes a ‘country’ kitchen? Do we take it literally; is it any kitchen a certain distance from a capital city CBD, where the paved road narrows and eventually turns to corrugations and red dust that gathers on the window sills? Or is it something a little less tangible?
It’s hard to know why this little kitchen - positioned as it is in a house just outside of Adelaide’s city mile - could have quite such a ‘country’ feel to it.
Because somehow it does; this kitchen - more than a century old - feels as country as they come.
Perhaps it’s the furnishings; at the heart of this little kitchen is my Granny’s old table, salvaged from her homestead on the property where I grew up at the back of Buckleboo, with her home-stitched linen tea towels and faded white bread bags still in its drawers. If you know where to look you can see the ghost of the linoleum squares that protected its surface from decades of family life on the farm.
We peel quinces here and slice peaches from the garden, ready for the stove and the sugar to preserve them in mismatched jars for the year to come.
There’s a certain something about sitting around this little table, with the morning light streaming through the old sash window, that invites all manner of conversation, collusion, collaboration and even the occasional confession; over tea cups, wine glasses, or stronger brews if the nature of the discussion calls for it.
Perhaps it’s the old fireplace, its red bricks lovingly (if grudgingly) exposed by my husband Locky when we took possession of the keys to the house on the eve of our first wedding anniversary.
Maybe it’s the knowledge of the cellar underneath, tiled over and thus out of reach until some future date, but always whispering of untold treasures hidden below. I suspect Fowlers jars filled with the ancestors of the peaches and figs we enjoy in the summer; Locky has his heart set on a case of Penfolds Grange. It’s likely we’ll both be disappointed, but that doesn’t take the fun out of the wondering.
Perhaps it’s the old pantry, home-made decades ago by some unknown hand (Mr Evelyn perhaps?), and now prettied up with a lick of paint, a fancy kettle and some polished glassware.
This kitchen is a muse; artists and poets who have graced this place have been inspired to wield brush and pen, to capture a moment in time. My children have been inspired to finger-paint here, to glue pasta and fling glitter and squelch shaving cream with food colouring, creating pieces as treasured as those that hang on the walls… if slightly more challenging to clean.
Our guests often tell us that they feel it too; the warmth and the vibe and the calm of the kitchen.
Perhaps it’s the echo of its previous occupant. I didn’t have the opportunity to meet Evelyn in person, but our neighbour Cliff lived alongside of her for decades and has many stories. Her signature is on the deed to the house, framed and hanging on the lounge room wall. I imagine she must’ve been someone very special, that this feeling lingers in the house years after she left it.
I think perhaps a country kitchen is defined not by its geography, or by the layer of red dust that persists on the window sill no matter how often the rag runs across it. I think perhaps it is defined by the way you feel when you stand in it; stirring a pot, refilling a glass, swaying with a baby. I think perhaps it is defined by the people you stand in it with.
This article was originally published with the title ‘Beating Heart’ in the April 2023 edition of Country Style magazine.
The Country Kitchen at Ms Evelyn’s
Tagged: country, nostalgia, grandma, tea
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