On My Kitchen

Looking through some kitchen photos featured on weather.com some time ago got me thinking again about our own kitchen.  Naturally, my opinions on the subject are colored by past experiences, so a brief background might be in order: 

Mom at her sink

I grew up in a home with a decent-sized kitchen, complete with the necessary appliances, numerous cabinets, yards of beautiful laminate countertops—including an island with further counter space and cabinets—a dishwasher that usually worked, and a laminate floor with enough space for my brother and I during our elementary school years to gleefully slide around with wet sponges on the pretense of “cleaning.”  It only wanted a little more space for the kitchen table when extended to its largest size, and it only ever seemed small on those occasions we served food to large parties of teenagers and adults.  

My parents' kitchen

I also had experience in those days with church kitchens—some mere kitchenettes, and some great, industrial-sized affairs with two or more sinks, ovens, and refrigerators each, stocked (or not) with a motley array of utensils and cleaning supplies.  Later in college, I shared a walk-in closet of a kitchen with about a hundred other girls in McCreery dorm.  As one might imagine, I only bothered to use it on special occasions.  I later lived in an apartment after college with a kitchen about the same size as the one in McCreery, fortunately shared between only three girls this time and deprived of half a wall; instead, a counter behind the sink separated the kitchen space from the living room and made it feel larger than it was.  Still, cabinets and counter space were minimal, which made storing food, cleaning dishes, and cooking a bit of a challenge.

And then I married.  And we began renting a house.  And this house has a kitchen.  And this kitchen is far less than desirable. (And I know I “shouldn’t” start sentences with “and,” but I chose to do so for effect, so there!)

I accepted our rental house with all its faults (the kitchen being only one of them—along with mold in the basement and bathroom, severely cracked front and back stoops, stained carpets and tub, cracked wall paint, etc.) due to the reasonable rent, decent location, and relatively cute and cozy design.  However, I accepted it with the thought that my husband and father would soon fix the kitchen counters and perhaps paint the scratched-up paint on the cabinets.  Yet, as often happens with procrastinators such as ourselves, we postponed such renovations to finance other projects, instead—partially with the idea that we’d be moving in a year.  But a year later, we assumed we’d move in six months; in six months, we planned to move in the next two years—and so on till we’ve now rented that house for six years!  (Thank goodness the rent is reasonable!)

I’ve coped with our kitchen: I hid the peeling plastic cover and crumbling counter with our coffee machine, large griddle, and dish rack. I stacked four, white plastic bins between the oven and one of the lower cabinets (partially blocking the latter’s door) to provide extra pantry space, then topped it with a cutting board.  I bought a collapsible bamboo shelf to split part of a cabinet shelf horizontally so I can fit more items inside and retrieve them more easily.  (I made more improvements in the cabinets after discovering small cockroaches *shudder*, as you may recall from a previous post.)  I set up a squarish old school desk with a cardboard recycle bin underneath, miscellaneous storage within, a microwave on top, and—its base resting on the desk—two wiry shelves above it all.  Then, some years ago, a rearrangement of the latter tower, kitchen table, and fridge improved the space.  However, getting anything out of that blocked cabinet by the cutting board stack is tricky, and a large trash can, by necessity, partially blocks the pantry door on the other end.  (We’ve at least shifted Joel’s 110 lb anvil so the door will open, but it also takes up floor space in that corner since we won’t risk the wobbly stairs and Joel’s safety by trying to cart it to the basement.)  Also, nothing can disguise the poorly-laid floor tiles that look dirty even when clean or the particularly bad bit of crumbling countertop in front of the dish rack.  

my current kitchen

I feel a twinge of guilt for complaining this much and thus feel obliged to moderate this description with the admission that it could be far, far worse.  I might not have a kitchen at all—or might have only a kitchenette.  I am grateful the space is not smaller and that the sink is deep and that the appliances all work—and that our landlady’s handyman keeps the faucet, drain, and garbage disposal in working order.  Still, when I see pictures of beautiful, spacious kitchens, when I try to cook multiple dishes at once, when we try to squeeze two or more guests around our kitchen table, or when I dismiss the idea of making a certain meal because the necessary appliances are tucked into a difficult-to-reach cabinet... *sigh*

Open concept

Spacious and efficient

My dream kitchen would have an open concept, connected to the living room and/or dining room.  It'd be arranged for efficiency of movement but with space for three or four people to cook or talk comfortably together with many feet of counter space and an island that a large gathering of people could loop around to snag food set upon it.  Partial stool seating would be an added bonus.  Rather than makeshift shelving, it’d have sufficient cabinet space and a nice, permanent arrangement for the recycle bin and microwave. The stovetop would have four burners under flat glass or upon solid, raised metal with no holes for food to slip into and provide a cleaning challenge.  A built-in range beside this would be nice, perhaps with a cutting board cover.  Two ovens—or both a regular and a warming oven—would help on many occasions.  The dining table (preferably twelve feet long or more when extended) would actually have its own area—not be forced to gobble up floor space that might be used for storage or for visitors to the kitchen or for seating in the living room.  

Lord willing, we’ll be living in our own house with just such a kitchen this time next year, but if we remain stuck with this kitchen much longer, I’d want to remodel.  The counter would be the priority and must be completely replaced—repairs are impossible.  I’d prefer a pale blue or grey laminate with a white tile backsplash.  If we have more money after that, I’d like to see the cabinets scraped and repainted as they are, white and blue—or better yet, replaced with pale wood cabinets, with more cabinets and a microwave nook added above the stove.  I’d replace the bent and torn screen door to the back yard, fix the crack at the bottom of the door to remove the draft, and even replace the floor tiles with faux hardwood laminate or uniform grey or light blue tile.  Then I’d then repair the cracked window pane, repaint the frame, and clean the paint-smeared glass.

Ho-ho!  But if I could go stir-crazy with remodeling, why not bash down the back wall and extend the house another twenty feet!?  Then we could have a proper dining space AND a larger kitchen—and let’s remodel the moldy bathroom and basement while we’re at it, adding a main-floor laundry and bathroom by the back door and fix the cracks in the walls and the crumbling porches and the... Who am I kidding?  I’d never bother with such a huge project with no real return on the money and effort.  (Just the counter alone seems overwhelming, when I think realistically.)

A lightning flash of guilt illuminates the materialism behind these desires, but I close the curtains on those thoughts.  I’ve put up with this wreck of a kitchen for five years, gosh darn it!  I think I’ve demonstrated a laudable amount of contentment (“or laziness,” another part of my brain snidely corrects me—shush, you!).  Surely I’m not wrong to desire something better so long as I don’t let discontentment ruin my joy or my witness as a Christian.  Since I plan to make use of a superior kitchen to provide more frequent hospitality, I hope my desires, if not purely altruistic, are at least not purely materialistic.