View From the Kitchen Window

An Art by Itself

CONVERSATION: PULLED FROM THE CUPBOARDS, spread out on the table, placed carefully on the floor, draped from the rafters like so much crepe paper or airy cobwebs, stitched together word by word, from the fabric of experience. Conversation: made from whole cloth, pasted together with bits of colored paper and yellowed newsprint. Stories passed back and forth, diatribes and rants, tentative thoughts released and exposed to the light and air for the first time. Art. Literature. The News. Politics. Music. Theatre. Film. NYS v. CA wines. The weather. Chocolate v. Pistachio. Hunter Thompson. Skimmed Milk v. Half & Half. Coffee v. Tea. Gratitude. Gas v. Electric. High Test v. Regular. Reading v. TV. Virginia Woolf. Writing v. Reading. Photography v. Painting. Generosity. Art v. Music. Life.

Conversation begun at the table, continued on The Red Trail the next morning, carried to the swimming hole, walked down the driveway after dinner, hung over the balcony railing to dry out over night. What medium is this, with no smell or taste or rough surface over which to drag a finger? It is neither hot nor cold, and leaves no image on film, yet sets the air to humming as before an earthquake or an electrical storm; a ghost of a medium that binds the 5 together with Lilliputian thread.

Dinnertime at the colony is a time often filled with vibrant and enthusiastic conversations: spilling out, tumbling, chirruping, seeping into the cracks of consciousness. At the end of the day, solitude and hard work is traded for companionship, and conversation. Over the clatter of pots and pans, the hum of the fridge, and the slosh and whirl of the dishwasher, as I go about my chores, snippets of ongoing conversation drift into the kitchen. I stop, my hands suspended in midair above the hot water in the sink, soap dripping from the half-washed pan, and with a quick intake of breath, I catch myself about to interject a comment, a thought, an opinion, a criticism, a kudo, a query. So interesting and provocative and engaging and attractive are these conversations at table, it’s hard not to want to join in.

But these are not my conversations. These exchanges belong to the artists, to the artists, and to Connie. For I think this is what she was thinking when she dreamed of the colony. I like to think, in the evening, her spirit hovers somewhere around the dinner table, delighting in the clink of ice in a glass and fork on a plate, in the flurry of words, and in the varied and wonderful conversations that are brought to dinner.

No, it is none of my business, these conversations. I fuss about in the kitchen, chopping and stirring, clattering dishes and banging pots. I carry the food to the table and return to the kitchen. And I can’t help but to listen. Sometimes I tarry, the pots washed, the floor swept, my duties done for the day. I listen at the door, waiting to catch a few words to think about on my way home. And when I do, I learn. The conversations are the best part.

JUDY BARRINGER, Colony Chef, is a visual artist and one of the founders of the Moosewood Restaurant.