I realize that this sounds absolutely ridiculous, but bear with me. I have a deep, eternal love for kitchen floors. It's not the linoleum or the tile that I love, nor is it the inexplicable sticky spots or scraps of dropped food. In fact, none of the physical aspects of kitchen floors really appeal to me at all. What I love might be entirely unique to my life and memories, or it may be a widespread phenomenon; either way, I'm going to explain it the only way I know how: through stories.

When I was a tiny child I, as most younger siblings do, absolutely idolized my older brother. He's eight years older than I am, and at that age he was just about the coolest person I knew. Because of this, it was always a very exciting occasion when he agreed to play with me (he was also the sweetest brother, so this wasn't an infrequent occurrence, but it was exciting nonetheless). One of our favorite games was called "Battleball," a thrilling competition of our own creation. All these years later, I can't really recall the rules, but I do know that Battleball required a lot of very meticulous preparation: we had to cut eye holes out of our beer box helmets, roll pieces of tin foil into balls, and find the perfect objects (usually a small stool) to serve as our shields. Despite the fact that we lived in a good-sized house with a large living room where most of our playing was done, Battleball occurred exclusively on the kitchen floor. It wasn't a decision we ever discussed; it was simply the only logical location for that particular game. I didn't know it then, but that was the beginning of a lifetime of memories linked to kitchen floors.

Several years later, I began to spend time with the girl who would become my best friend for a significant portion of my life. We only lived two blocks away from each other, so one of us would visit the other's house almost every day. We cooked together frequently, always trying out new recipes with varying degrees of success. While we waited for our culinary experiments to cook, we would camp out on her kitchen floor, talking and singing showtunes and playing with her dogs. This ritual continued through middle and high school; as the conversations cycled through books, movies, boys, and school, the setting remained constant. I've always had trouble defining the concept of home, but I think the well-worn wood of my best friend's kitchen floor came pretty close.

But it didn't end there. All throughout high school, I spent many a drowsy morning sipping hot coffee on kitchen floors. No matter where I was-- home, a friend's house, visiting a relative-- I could usually be found in a sunny corner of the kitchen, sitting contentedly on the floor. I remember one particular morning from last spring; I had spent the night with a friend, and when we woke up we decided to make coffee and crepes. Since this friend is the undisputed crepe master of my life, I mostly sat on the floor and let her work her magic. We made conversation with each other and with her family as the warm, vaguely sweet smell of crepes, coffee, and fresh fruit filled the room, and I felt perfectly content to be exactly where I was.

One of the most bittersweet moments I can recall took place during the winter of my senior year in high school. I was sitting on a blanket on yet another friend's kitchen floor, surrounded by people I'd come to know and love over the years we'd spent together in our beautiful little hometown. We were listening to our favorite bands, eating toaster-oven s'mores, just enjoying each other's company. I had just begun to apply to colleges, most of which were here in New York, and I was starting to consider for the first time that there was a very real possibility I would soon be moving two thousand miles away from all these people and places I loved so much. Surrounded by the warmth and laughter of my favorite people in the world, that suddenly seemed like a terrifying concept. In that moment, not one ounce of my being wanted to leave.

Things change, however, and one year later here I am. I made the move I was so afraid of, and I left all of the people and all of the kitchen floors I loved. But just as so many things are bound to change, some will always stay the same. Now I live with three of the most extraordinary girls I could have asked for, and even though before we moved in we were all complete strangers I can't imagine what my life here would be like with anyone else. The common space we all share is, of course, our kitchen. In the almost three months I've lived here with them, I can't count how many late nights we've spent together on our kitchen floor. It's where we paint, listen to our favorite songs, work on homework together, share stories and pictures from all of our hometowns, have minor mental breakdowns on an uncomfortably regular basis, and binge watch "Gilmore Girls" on Saturday nights when everyone else is out partying. It's where we've been known to construct a makeshift couch by dragging our mattresses from our bedrooms and piling blankets on top, and where we've spilled more microwave popcorn and paint-tinted water than the average human ever will. This space really catalyzed our friendship, and it's become a home to us. Even now I'm sitting here on my kitchen floor writing this, favoring it as a workspace over the table, desk, or bed.

So roll your eyes all you want, but kitchen floors will always hold a very special place in my heart. They are ingrained in my mind as a place of community and contentedness. If you have never spent time on your (or any) kitchen floor, I would strongly encourage you to do so in the near future. You might be pleasantly surprised.