What does Singing Wheat Kitchen look like, the place where I hurl the flour, splash berry gelee on the floor and stir the pots till they splutter and hiss with promise? Singing Wheat is my kitchen, to be sure, with a sink and an old stove that barely qualify as equipment. It is a kitchen where anything happens, but it's something more.
Singing Wheat is a state of mind, not a workspace or horrors, a cubicle. It's a playroom and a tearoom like Nancy Drew used to visit when she was out chasing clues. You wouldn't think it a suitable space for a baking & patisserie student like I, not with those Persian rugs on the floor and a piano in the corner.
Singing Wheat used to be part of a garage, but we made it over. Notice the antique secretary with the blue-on-white plates? Gives the room a sense of timeless beauty. There are many oddities that find a place here. There are assorted leftovers of 1930s Fiesta ware, a non-singing cuckoo clock, a collection of cobalt blue glassware in a window, an antique turtle table with a marble top, which is where the bread dough hangs.
The family kitchen queens who came before me saved everything - assorted pitchers large and small, Depression era crockery, ice picks, silver service, even children's tea sets. There are white linens that make you think of The French Laundry. Crystal sherbet glassware. Candelabra. Tattered cookbooks. It's all here, with fresh flowers some days, and often, whacking good bread.
I go in there every day, but I'm never sure what will come out. Today it's a twist on herb bread, two twists, made with rosemary, thyme and basil from the garden. Tomorrow, maybe cream roses, or a fresh batch of diminutive madeleines. I never know, I just let the whim carry me off.
As I child I was given a chemistry set, now I have my own lab, a gentle place of aromas. Experiments. Poetic crusts. Drop in, we're always open on days ending in why.
(Photo by John H. Ostdick, Singing Wheat's Chef de Partie)
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