I'm Adely Moan and this is The Slowdown.

I just hosted my brother and his family here at my house for the Thanksgiving holiday.

I cooked a few nights and each time I did, my brother and I were reminded of how much

time we spent in the kitchen growing up.

At my father's house we had a weekly dinner menu taped on the refrigerator so that each

night a different pair of us would make a meal.

One night it would be my dad and me and another night it would be my stepmother Cynthia and

my brother Cyrus and another night it would be Cyrus and me and so forth.

We talked a lot about how we learned to cook, how we learned to set the table, do the

dishes, soak the pans, take our jobs seriously.

At my mother's house I'll admit she did most of the cooking with us only occasionally

helping.

But no matter what house we were in, we had the idea that the kitchen was the place

where you learned things.

Not just the ins and outs of chopping or family recipes but the gossip of the day, the gossip

of the family.

It's where we might accidentally learn new details of the divorce or about an argument

between my mother and her parents.

The kitchen was a sacred place, lessons were learned, roles were determined, and there

was also martyrdom.

The person who cooked for you, who cared for you, who made a sacrifice.

How long something took to bake, how hard something was to make, how tired they were

...