I want a kitchen door friend.
I actually have friends who would be kitchen door friends, except we don’t live anywhere near each other, and we aren’t able to just drop in for coffee or a scone or to borrow a cup of flour or gossip.
And I don’t have a kitchen door.
And as much as I am thoroughly involved in my life of isolated American suburbia, I kind of like the idea of having a friend who lives nearby who just pops over every day at around the same time, opens the door, pokes her head in, calls “heloo-oooo?” and steps in to check the coffee pot.
I want a friend who helps me fold the laundry on the kitchen table and chats with me while we have dinner simmering on the stove. We’ll make a double batch, so she can take some home.
OK, that makes it sound like I want a babysitter/housekeeper friend. But what I really want is a comfortable friendship with someone who I see frequently enough that we don’t have to “catch up”. A friend who feels welcome enough to pop her head in the door and start a pot of coffee, if it needs to be started. A friend who will cook with me and share her day with me.
And the problem is I used to have friends like these. My dear friends Carlie and Kath, who lived nearby, were weekly or near-daily companions. We would walk and talk, grab a coffee or sushi, sit in the backyard with peppermint tea or fold towels on the bed. I still have these friends, I just don’t have the proximity to allow for that kind of friendship.
And being home with a baby, getting no adult interaction other than my Mountain Man or the grocery store clerk a couple times a week, makes me wistful for the days that I could pop over to Kath’s house and let myself in, or meet Carlie at the lake for our daily walk.
I hate talking on the phone, so although I want to be in touch with friends on a regular basis and sometimes even promise to call more often, I don’t. And emailing is so difficult now, requiring some time to myself and having two hands at my disposal. I need a friend who lives down the street, will pop over, help herself to the coffee and sneak a cookie.
I guess I want the life of a a pastoral-yet-urban 1950’s suburban housewife.