The music always seemed to be the loudest in the summer. That was because the industrial-strength air conditioner was humming away in the window above the sink. She couldn’t stand the heat, and so she spent most of her days in that kitchen. She was either breading boneless breasts of chicken in crushed up Saltines or stirring the meat sauce for one of her enormous batches of meatballs. And she almost was one herself: four-foot ten. I used to tease her that she could pose for trophies. At that height, she stood only a foot or two above the stove. This worked out perfectly for her, though, as it placed her directly in front of the air conditioner vents spewing out climate-controlled air-cooled to a brisk sixty-six degrees. Climbing the back steps, I could hear the air conditioner buzzing the window frame, the back-door swinging heavily on the frame as I entered through the dimly lit laundry room. The kitchen was separated from there by another swinging door, and I could hear my mother singing.
That kitchen never left the 1970’s. Orange ceilings with brown and yellow plaid wallpaper, the floors rutted with dents from the aluminum chairs framing the table. As I entered, I was immediately blasted by the cold, chemical breath of the air conditioner; so loud that everyone speaks in a mild scream in order to be heard. But that’s not the only reason we have to scream. Part of my mother’s daily cooking ritual was her music. She liked it loud. She wanted to feel the drums beating in her chest as she moved to it, using a spoon as her microphone. She used to sing as loudly as she could. She knew the noise bothered my father, and this made her smile even more – she was a bit of a trickster. The music that came out of her mouth and emanated from her body was a form of joy. The music made her move, and the noise of it all was intoxicating.
Growing up, I loved to be in that air-conditioned kitchen. My earliest memories of music lie there. Even though my mother is no longer here, deep inside my mind, there is a corner papered in orange and plaid, freezing in the climate-control, and she is there too, moving to the sound of the drums. It is pure joy.