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The year is 1998. I\u2019m 5 years old, coming home from a half day of kindergarten. I\u2019m sitting in my mom\u2019s kitchen while she makes me a snack, probably something adorable, like ants on a log or Dinosaur Eggs oatmeal (IYKYK). This kitchen is my safe space, not just for time with family and good food, but for the vibes. It\u2019s peak Chicken Kitchen nostalgia, replete with farmhouse finds in every corner: a green gingham tablecloth, frilly valences, a Longaberger basket filled with shiny red apples. My mother hates to bake, but I swear, walking into our old kitchen you\u2019d expect to see a cartoon pie sitting on an open windowsill, cartoon squiggles wafting off to hungry passersby.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m 32 now, and all I yearn for is the \u201990s Chicken Kitchen. A place to come together in total provincial bliss. A place for family dinners, for holiday traditions, for Reba McEntire on an old boom box. Country kitchens were comforting and cheerful, defined by their honeyed wood cabinetry and welcoming layouts. And, of course, their chickens\u2014whether they were a stoneware hen or a rooster print, chickens were the<\/em> moment. The \u201990s Chicken Kitchen made guests feel like there was a basket of fresh eggs in the fridge waiting just for them that had been collected minutes before they arrived\u2014even if you were 50 miles from the closest farm.<\/p>\n What I loved most about the Chicken Kitchen was how familiar it felt. Everyone<\/em> had a Chicken Kitchen. As a shy, introverted kid, I\u2019d walk into any of my friends\u2019 houses and immediately feel at ease at the sight of a rooster or plump country goose.<\/p>\n Even if folks didn\u2019t go full Chicken, the sentiment was there. I remember our neighbors across the street swapped roosters for cows: cow canisters, cow linens, a herd of cow figurines set high on a farmhouse shelf, ostensibly admiring these bovine trappings. Another classmate\u2019s parents leaned hard into apples. They even had an apple-printed border framing their entire kitchen and<\/em> dining room. Such dedication<\/p>\n Maybe our parents wanted to be farmers. Maybe they, too, yearned for simpler, more pastoral times. Or maybe they watched too much Paula Deen. I don\u2019t know. But what I do<\/em> know is that the \u201990s Chicken Kitchen made me feel secure, welcome, and loved\u2014the goal of any good family kitchen.<\/p>\n I miss the chickens. I miss the apples. I miss the whimsical geese wearing blue bonnets and ribbons around their necks. We\u2019ve put our proverbial Chicken Kitchens out to pasture and replaced them with sterile, cookie-cutter blah:<\/em> pretentious stainless-steel appliances that look like they came from a NASA lab. When I walk into a kitchen and the most colorful thing I see is a pastel Our Place pan, I am bored.<\/em> And don\u2019t give me \u201cmodern farmhouse\u201d\u2014I see right through your mason jars and reclaimed wood accents.<\/p>\n In the age of microtrends, my dream kitchen isn\u2019t sleek or curated for Instagram\u2014it\u2019s a place to relax and connect, warmed in honey oak woodwork and buttery, yellow paint. Give me homey and bucolic; a lazy Susan under the counter and a skirted cabinet. You can keep your $2,000 espresso machines and designer cookware\u2014all I want is a country goose cookie jar and vintage Corningware. If you\u2019re reading this, you too can bring back the \u201990s Chicken Kitchen. I know I will, and all are welcome in my henhouse.<\/p>\n