October 27, 2013
Darlings, be advised:
For every five cooks who wish to knock out a wall, opening their kitchen to all and sundry, allowing said sundry to kibbutz, criticize or generally distract by telling long and fairly pointless shaggy dog stories, there are by my estimation at least two, maybe three, of us who’d rather be flayed alive than tear out a wall.
I am one of the Unholy who hate to cook. So, God forbid that some nudnik who’s slopping down my Kim Crawford sauvignon blanc should disturb me while I am elbow-deep in chaos. Let’s face it, even we who eschew the kitchen except for pilfering the sea-salt caramels on top of the refrigerator, must occasionally venture forth to throw a steak on the barbie (horrid picture, that) or toss a green salad.
Do I want someone looking over my shoulder as I innocently douse the charcoal flames with my squirter bottle, thereby setting the dinner hour forward forty-five minutes? Should I not resent the guest who, third Mason jar of wine in hand, slips on that slick spot where the dressed radicchio flung itself from bowl to floor and sues me (the guest, not the radicchio), or the freeloader who distracts me while the pasta transmogrifies from al dente to al pot-hole-filler?
No, no, no. And again, I said “no.” Take back your sledge hammer. Unhand that fair kitchen wall. It is all that stands between me and madness.