If you’re young and on a budget while navigating New York’s concrete jungle, your kitchen is smaller than a closet. Prison cells are roomier. Cells also have the luxury of four walls. Studio kitchens do not. No, we plebeians share our living space with the fumes of the oven. It’s all very Sylvia Plath. While it’s been convenient for keeping warm this winter, death by carbon monoxide is no way to go.
Truth be told, my kitchen is not that bad compared to the awkward hellholes I’ve seen: kitchens so narrow that only a pre-pubescent gymnast could fit; kitchens where the sink and stove are separated by the bed; kitchens where mice “summer” in the oven. Forget about cleaning behind the fridge, it’ll give you PTSD. On a recent trip to an apartment on Central Park West, I cried when I entered the kitchen. “What’s the matter?” asked the host. “It’s just so beautiful,” I said. Oh to be rich and oblivious.
I’ve seen kitchens that mimic fallout shelters or have some sort of minimalist, Bolshevik motif. Some remind me of frat houses and others, hell. I’ve seen kitchens painted throw-up green and Pepto-Bismol pink which, frankly, doesn’t scream “bon appetit.” And don’t forget the sheer ugliness of all those Formica countertops. The 1960s spurred great innovations. The use of Formica Laminate was not one of them. Anything with a title like, “pesto mist,” should not be used to decorate a kitchen.
I live on the fifth floor of a studio walk-up. Yes, I have buns of steel. My dad once tried to make-it up and has yet to be found. When deliverymen come to my door, I tip them extra for the trek. I have one Chinese food place that won’t even deliver (wouldn’t want anyone going into cardiac arrest). The summer is when the fun really starts. There’s a wall of heat that builds somewhere between the fourth and fifth flight. I’ve occasionally been sighted stripping before making it to the top.
My kitchen is approximately five by five feet. The standing area is only 3.5 by 5 feet – cozy. While the kitchen is partitioned from the living space, it’s adjacent to the bathroom and that is not sexy. The appliances are “no-name” appliances and counter space is made possible by an IKEA butcher block. The oven, incessantly hot like a menopausal mom, basically has a “kind of hot” and “really-hot” setting. When the pilot light goes out (which happens frequently), I turn on the gas, light a match, and shield my eyebrows. The wall has a blackened spot from a previous accident (oops). The temperature control in the refrigerator is busted and mold sprouts on everything in about four days. If all else fails, I can run a back-alley penicillin business.
Despite the depressing nature of my kitchen, I love to cook. My kitchen is like that really ugly runt you birthed and love anyway. It’s a just a little off. And even though it’s had enough malfunctions to rival twitter.com/SochiProblems, I like it anyway. It builds character – sort of. I wouldn’t even call it “heritage chic.” That would require some Kinfolk-style orange crates and a Danish stud. No, it’s crappy. But we can’t all partake in the fantasies of a Food Network kitchen or have farms in upstate New York. I say rise to the challenge – cook, entertain, and have the occasional accident.
Stay tuned.