When I got married, my mother said: ‘The first thing you need to do is get your husband out of the kitchen.’ ‘Ha ha, mother,’ I replied. ‘You are such a dinosaur. My husband is a wonderful modern man and very handy in the kitchen. Why would I want him out?’ My mother so successfully banished my father from the kitchen that he can’t identify mozzarella, and the only dish he can make is cold bread, loaded with cheddar and topped with chutney.
He is completely dependent on her, which she thinks is a good thing. This arrangement also means she reigns supreme in the kitchen – no one tells her what to do. She is free to have favourite spider webs and items in the fridge so old they qualify for a bus pass. I had thought this arrangement was prehistoric. But now, after nearly 15 years of marriage, I concede that she has a point.
My husband [journalist and broadcaster Giles Coren] is an excellent cook and also very tidy – he does not fit the stereotype of the man who uses every pot and pan in the kitchen to cook a dramatic feast and then doesn’t wash up. This means that he qualifies to have an opinion about the kitchen. About fridge organisation, bins, food storage, leftovers and cooking. It’s infuriating. The kitchen is supposed to be my domain.
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There are many hardships and woes to being the primary caregiver and lower-wage earner in a marriage, but one upside, surely, is that the kitchen is your empire. You are Supreme Ruler! But no one seems to have told Giles this, and there are endless tensions as we duke it out for complete control of the most important room in the house.
The Great Knife Debate of 2011-16 (blades up or down in the dishwasher?) was solved bloodily, with Giles brutally stabbing himself in the hand with a Victorinox paring knife while unloading the cutlery basket. It required an emergency visit to hospital and stitches. I felt sorry for him, yes, but there has been no more fussing about knives up or down. Which has left plenty of time to fight about everything else.
He hates my rubber gloves, and if they are not clipped to the wall I find them tossed about the place in a disrespectful manner. He thinks I load the dishwasher inefficiently; I think he is mentally unwell given this obsession with correct stacking. When he starts loudly rearranging the machine, I quietly exit, leaving him ranting to thin air. He thinks ketchup in the fridge, I think ketchup in the larder. Back and forth we go. He is neurotic about leftovers, hustling them into the fridge before they are cool enough, which I’m convinced is disgusting and wrong. His idea of a fridge ‘edit’ is to take all the outdated/blue things out, but then leave them on the countertop, because he finds actually scooping the mouldy mass into the compost bin deeply unpleasant. But, I suppose, this is less of a kitchen argument than a bitter complaint.
I mean, when I think about it, he really is a total… wait. What’s that smell coming up the stairs? Oh, wow. I forgot. Giles is making dinner tonight. He’s doing a Spanish fish soup and roasting the garlic and tomatoes for the base. It takes hours, but it’s worth it – so delicious. In fact, forget everything I said – he’s welcome to the kitchen! If you need me, I’ll be by the sink, clipping my rubber gloves to the wall.
