I am in the kitchen a lot less than I used to be. I buy groceries for a new recipe and never get to it, instead absorbing the ingredients into the stir-fries and pasta dishes I make almost every night for dinner. People find out my work revolves around food and ask what I like to cook. These days, it’s whatever doesn’t make a mess of the tiny 2-by-3-foot countertop in my apartment kitchen — whatever offers the safety of predictable results and creates leftovers that I’ll actually want to eat. I hate waste, but I’ve found myself throwing more food out than ever before. Half-chopped onions grow mold and slimy herbs sit next to the remains of kitchen experiments that didn’t quite land while I pull the sleeve of bagels from the refrigerator for yet another egg and cream cheese sandwich.
Two years ago, I moved my small but aspirational collection of cooking wares into this little galley kitchen at my near-west side apartment. The sparse counter space fits only a dish rack and a few cutting boards stacked against the wall. Things get even more cramped when I’m in the middle of cooking and a blur of black fur lands on the counter for a better view of the chaos. Half my time in the kitchen is spent removing cats from the one workspace they aren’t supposed to be in.
My tiny kitchen might not be the main culprit of my waning joy for cooking. In the last few years, I’ve strayed from being one of the most put-together people I know to a true riptide of chaos. My intentions are often bigger than reality, and at their worst, an inconvenience to others. The organizational and planning skills I’ve always been known for are hanging by a thin thread. I’m painfully aware of these things but can’t seem to figure out how to be different — become the person I used to be. I used to have a scrap of paper taped to my computer with the phrase “You have all the time in the world.” When did I stop believing it? Does everything shrink, like time and my tiny kitchen, as I age? How many years into becoming an adult can we blame our issues on our environment before we have to take accountability for the way we live? If I’m over going big, how do I embrace the small?
Maybe the solution actually lies inside my tiny kitchen. In the afternoon, the south-facing windows release a fervent stream of sunlight onto the peeling vinyl tiles and avocado-colored walls. My collection of cacti and succulents can’t thrive anywhere else in my apartment, so I make room out of barely anything for them. My cats like to stretch out in the sunbeams. When I bend down to pet their overturned tummies, they purr. It may be small, but this is a space for the living. Maybe next time I should try to join them, even if I don’t cook a thing. Maybe it’s enough to steep a cup of tea in my tiny kitchen. Maybe, in time, I’ll crack open a cookbook and my future and past selves will meet again over a homecooked meal.
Emma Waldinger is food editor at Madison Magazine.
In the 2024 Milwaukee Press Club’s Excellence in Journalism Awards, “Back of House” won Bronze in the “Best Column” category.
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