There is no door between the kitchen and the house. This is disconcerting when you require sacred space — quiet space — room to really find your inner cook, whatever that person loves to cook.
There is horrible lighting, mostly because some genius put our kitchen in the windowless center of the house. I know the kitchen is the heart of the home, but did it have to be one that required fluorescent lighting? So clinical. It makes cooking obligatory instead of delightful. You can’t see with any other kind of light, and of course if you tried to put in a skylight my bathroom would come crashing down.
Every smell, good or bad, wafts out of that kitchen. Bad smells. Good smells. Smells you can’t quite categorize.
My mother was born in a kitchen, on a sofa (this was done in postwar Germany).
Every sound, good or bad, drowns out the rest of the house noise. We are forever bickering over who’s running the water during whose hour of telly.
Would the light improve if it were stark white instead of faintly yellow? Would that help with the standing and the boredom?
When did food turn into a chore instead of an art, and why, why was I not blessed with an innate love of its preparation?