The round oak table that groaned as my father leaned on it to raise up from his chair and say, “Delicious, Lora Jean.”

The five ladder backed chairs, one that didn’t match, one that was always occupied last by my mother, rushing to join us with pot holders gripping one more dish.

The black pebbly countertops my mother regretted choosing, with grooves that required scraping if peanut butter was involved.

The Amana Radarange Oven, its popcorn popper the usurper of Jiffy Pop, tucked on a shelf in the pantry.

The faux brick flooring, slightly faded in front of the stove where spot cleaning alternated with a mopping of the whole kitchen.

The blue gingham wallpaper above a chair rail, with walls that absorbed the smells of cornbread, spaghetti sauce, and strawberry jello.