In order to explain just how glamorous my grandmother was, I will tell you three things. One: she wore exclusively gold shoes. Two: every surface of the bathroom in her Manchester flat was mirrored, including the ceiling. And three: the only things she kept in her fridge were bottles of nail varnish. As a child I thought it the height of chic, even when she had no tea to give me, and I still remain in awe of those who choose glamour over domestic drudgery, who keep their cashmere in the oven, the only foodstuff in the cupboards a single bottle of hot sauce.
There is something so decadent about an unused kitchen, something deliciously anarchic. I’m not talking about the show kitchens we enjoy judging in the vast mansions of celebrities – those long, grey landscapes of marble and chrome, with six ovens and a special island for arrangements of apples. No; those kitchens are designed to give the illusion of foodiness, of grand cheffery, to present the owner as homely and honest rather than someone who has eaten the same grilled chicken salad delivered by their assistant every day since they were 23.
The unused kitchens I so admire are, in fact, very much in use. Just not for cooking.
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Typically, they are wardrobe extensions, the plate cupboards providing just the right depth for shoes, the freezer excellent for storing cooling eye masks and ridding knitwear of moths. Others are repurposed as offices, with the kettle doing the work of ten men as it remains the only cooking utensil that can be operated by simply leaning over the table. Still more, as in the case of my late grandma’s have become beauty salons, the sink stained with a light glaze of hair dye, the fridge full of Chanel nail varnish in ‘Ballerina’ and ‘Vamp’.
In fact the more I think about it, doesn’t it seem a bit... embarrassing to use a kitchen for its intended purpose? To give in so easily? To insert the pies and chill the juice and stack the bowls and simply behave like one more programmed machine? I’m thinking now of those very deep drawers designed specifically for pans, or those ridiculously thin pull-out units for, what, single-file spices? Tall pepper? Don’t tell me what to put in you, unit. I will decide what you are for, my god.
The book I remember most fondly from growing up was my mum’s copy of The Slut’s Cookbook, which declared ‘the slut’s best friend is a tin opener’, its thesis being: if a meal takes more than 20 minutes to make, it is simply not worth it and you might as well go out for chips.
Food is fabulous, of course, but the ceremony around it, the cooking and plating, not to mention all the cleaning and wiping, somewhat dulls the sheen of the whole endeavour for me. I’ve had gorgeously involved conversations about how the ideal kitchen is simply a kettle and two dishwashers.
Shall we, then, recognise the classification of the word ‘kitchen’ as simply a suggestion? It needn’t be only a place to cook or clean – just because it is where your toaster has ended up doesn’t mean this is where breakfast needs to happen. No, this room, in fact, can be a stage, a storage unit for your precious glamours, a shameless haven, not just a space where you make dinner. It can be a place you’re free to make your own.
