GEOFFREY FARMER: THE BIG KITCHEN

In my childhood, very early in the mornings, I went about delivering newspapers to kitchen doors. There was one old wooden house with an immense, old-fashioned kitchen and sometimes I was invited in for a glass of orange juice. I would stand still by the counter and linger there examining the large interior. I became curious about a bookshelf crammed with what appeared to be some well used books. They were unusually stained, seemingly misused, covered in goop, stained with oil, and crammed with papers of various sizes and colours. Something got into my mind, about these books, wondering why they were in the kitchen, and why someone would choose to read them there. For this reason, I have always connected literature with the kitchen. The kitchen is the first place I remember being struck (with a wooden spoon), getting burned badly (on the stove), and reading the news, and it is also the place where I received a bowl of warm oatmeal every morning. Later I discovered that those books were recipes; take a white space, stir in 3 drawings, add a text and bake for 30 days. As I grew up the kitchen diminished in size, there were more arguments, fewer meals and less mystery, until finally the giant kitchen of my childhood vanished entirely.

- Geoffrey Farmer