The kitchen was truly the hub of our home, the nerve centre of the Bosmans household. The ever burning stove, so acutely sketched by our uncle Frans, did its job in winter and summer, glowing with coal or crackling wood. It cooked Mum’s spuds, carrots and Brussels lof (witlof), the numerous kettles of water for the washing on Mondays, or it filled the big galvanized tub for our Saturday bath routine. Than on those cold nights the hot water bottles were filled, combined with the marching orders: ‘and now off to bed’.

Our kitchen didn't have a dishwasher, no mixers or a microwave, not even a refrigerator, but there was a smooth granite sink and we had a wooden bread-platter where thousands of slices were cut.
Instead of getting things out the frig, we dived into our cellar, a dark, slightly damp and musty place, its entrance next to the ‘front door’; many times a day we went down that way, as that was our cool store. So we were used to bend our heads as we went down the steps to avoid a collision with the big iron support beam. Under that staircase, in the darkest part, was the home of the Eigenheimer potatoes, stored on blocks of moist absorbent peat.
At the far end hanging on the wall was the ‘vliegenkastje’- a cupboard made of wire gauze to allow fresh air to circulate and keep the flies out. Here one could find the Gouda cheese, ham and meat, milk and butter. Turning left, two long shelves carried many rows of Goudrenet apples, so suitable for storage.
These long lasting, large fleshy fruit with golden, bluish velvet skin, had to carry us through the winter and further, till the new season.
Opposite a narrow window brought some daylight into the ‘dungeon’ by way of a vent-hole underneath the front door.
Also sharing the space were grey earthenware pots containing fat, jars of honey, jam, and so on.