An Open Letter to My Mother's Kitchen

Dear Kitchen,

I did a whole lot of growing up in you. I cannot count how many cookies, cakes, and pies I made using your admirable amenities. I’ve probably eaten a good five thousand meals in you and hand washed the corresponding dishes that couldn’t go in the dish washer. Kitchen, you of all entities know that is a modest estimate. Then all of a sudden, I go away to college, and boom, Mom remodels you. I don’t know where anything goes anymore. I’m a stranger in my own home. Sure, sure, you look all nice and shiny with your dark wood cabinets and matching stainless steel appliances – very elegant, by the way – but I know you’re up to something. You’re confusing everyone; shelves exist where they shouldn’t, appliances have changed positions. You even have a warming drawer for hors d’eouvres. That is un-American. And I don’t like the oven. It turns off when the timer goes off. To get that lasagna perfect, or to get the gooey tenderness of those cookies just right, the oven must remain at 400 degrees Fahrenheit, not pass by with a paltry 320! At least the pantry is marginally untouched, so that I can find a can of Chef Boyardee and make myself some ravioli. Now if only I can find the can opener…

The Mirror Experiment: The End of the Line

I uncovered my mirrors again. I realized that although I felt more like I was a whole, unified "me" when I could not see my reflection, I was at risk of going too far. To use the proverbial phrase, I was making "a mountain out of a molehill." Before reading a brief segment of Lacan's "The Mirror Stage," I had not thought much about being alienated from myself or recognizing the other in my image. It is useful to think about how the other might see us and be aware of the other, but there is so much more which occurs beneath the image we present. It does not take a French psychiatrist to tell me that I am also my hopes, fears, thoughts, aspirations, joys, sorrows, experiences, and responses, to name a few. Barring religion, I am the person who can best understand myself. That French psychiatrist might be able to give me a few suggestions as to why I think the way I do, but he cannot tell me what I think.

In covering my mirror, I started to feel more whole, but I also treated that wholeness with more importance than it deserved. De-emphasizing my appearance was unnecessary for my well-being, and had I continued that course of action, I might have developed psychological problems about images and the self further down the line.

My mother taught me very well as a was growing up: stick to the middle path. In trying the "Mirror Experiment," I swerved over to one extreme of the path for a while. By ending the experiment, I feel back on track to where I want to go. At least, that is, in regards to mirrors.