Various Shades of Brown
And Finding Independence
When I was growing up, the kitchen in my house was various shades of brown: the waxy oak cupboards held beef stew and powdered chocolate milk, the one with the bunny. The floor was concentric squares of repeating caramel and toast-colored tones. The pattern was busy and held the stains of pork chop gravy and dead ants. The air was always warm, and fried food smell clung to the ceiling lights.
Once, my brother and I woke up early. We were three and four years old.
We padded on the brown carpet toward our brown kitchen. We poured a bowl of Cheerios. Our bowls clinked softy on the white tile counters. Being the older sibling, he was more competent and clever than me. He could open the refrigerator, a feat I had not yet conquered. Its heavy, suctioned doors were no match for my unassertive arms.
My brother pleaded with the refrigerator doors until they opened, but the milk was on the top shelf, and there was no way of reaching it. Our little arms grabbed for it. We knocked over bottles of bleu cheese dressing and Worcestershire sauce. The milk was in the back, buried behind the leftover fast food taquitos. We sat against the dishwasher, confused and hungry. How can we eat a bowl of Cheerios without milk? The thought was absurd.
At the same time, our eyes locked on the towering Sparklets water dispenser with its vast and endless supply of liquid. We gave each other a knowing glance and stood to fill our cereal bowls with filtered water as if we had been doing this our whole lives.
Pleased with ourselves, we carefully shuffled into the living room, set our bowls down, and swiveled the heavy, oak-encased television towards us. Turning it on, we watched Disney’s Gummi Bears and slurped up our water-logged cereal.
It was the best meal ever; the bland oats were toasty and mildly sweet, but they also tasted a little salty, like independence.
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