Stranded on the Kitchen Island
I love American home makeover shows. They take a dump and redesign it into a dream home. Though it really depends on your own definition of a dream dump. Because almost by default, these homes are spacious, with the kitchen, dining and lounging space all merged into one, looking out to a porch or a swimming pool through large French doors. One of the heroes from Queer Eye sold his revamped house after they left. Since the value of the property increased as a consequence, it’s only one of several reasons that make you want to sell and move somewhere else.
The most obvious is the practicality of everyday life and related costs. The bigger the place, the more money you’ll have to spend on maintenance and utilities. The front lawn will require extensive watering and better have a mower waiting in the garage when you need it. If a vegetable garden is in your plans, that requires enough backyard space. Then there’s the pool, a symbol of upper middle class prestige. When you look at those chic interiors, it’s easy to see the average client profile: a family entertaining at home, with a enough friends to fill their swimming pool and likes to socialise while cooking on the kitchen island overlooking the living room.
Ah yes. The kitchen island. An acquaintance of mine has it and regrets she ever thought of getting one. That’s what happens when you watch too many home makeovers. Even more so if you’re foolish enough to pick that oh so instagrammable waterfall edge. The word itself sounds like something you’d want to avoid at all costs: imagine all those puddles on the soaking wet floor. You’ll end up constantly wiping and scrubbing as if you were your housekeeper and not the homeowner. Step by step, these fabulous homes turn you into a slave without a single day off duty.
And then those bar stools. What the fuck? If I ever open a bar, it won’t be at my house and I would charge you for a drink. Having someone watch me while I chop-chop-chop the ingredients for my famously mediocre wok isn’t an opportunity for an engaging conversation. When my fingers are all soaked from olive oil and smelling of veggies, do not approach me, otherwise I’ll have to use my chef’s knife. That is, unless I chop-chop my finger off because you distracted me.
Whoever started the trend of open shelving with stacks of designer glasses, bowls and mugs deserves a mugshot instead of a selfie. Imagine the amount of dust, bacterial residue and other invisible hazards up there. My hitherto hibernating inner hypochondriac would wake up feeling like Tippi Hedren inside that phone booth in The Birds. Sometimes I run into a dead fly inside a coffee cup if it’s been out of the cupboard for too long. Don’t be surprised if you find a spider discreetly squatting behind it, you’re not the only one who has family staying over for the holidays.
Don’t get me started on your cute little miniature spice garden on the kitchen window sill. If my laziness can kill seemingly indestructible succulents, edible fragile stuff like basil and rosemary don’t stand a chance in my nightmare nursery. In stylish stories you’ll also see tons of utensils sitting around on the marble countertops. The closest a whisk would come to actual use in my kitchen would be as a flagellation device for guests with special needs but that’s what the dungeon in my basement is for, though only off camera- nothing to see here folks. And a Dutch oven? I didn’t know what that is until I saw it at Goop and something tells me it doesn’t smell like Gwyneth’s vagina though it looks equally appealing.
No, we’re not yet done with the kitchen grievances. There are those giant refrigerators that only a professional chef could make full use of, just like a set of kitchen knives most people will rarely use in entirety. I grew up in a family where knowing the difference between the glasses for white and red wine was of certain importance since back in the day entertaining at home was a regular occurance. There’s enough reusable cloth wipes at my place to give Greta an earth-shattering dopamine rush. I serve meat so she’d hardly feel welcome though. Don’t worry, there are still no cats in my Dutch oven. There was a canary bird here which went on a hunger strike and died eventually. I’d obviously be bad at running a workers’ union too. Irresponsible, incapable and most definitely owning and flaunting it.
Then there’s that preposterous device turning tap water sparkly. I’d rather have water turning into wine but I’m no longer in our Lord’s good book. But if I am, his HR department should reconsider their criteria. Kids that don’t behave go to that place where the roof is on fire, just like the playlist. Next to it is usually a fancy blender meant for healthy smoothies but it’s more likely to be in charge of your margaritas and you know it just like I do. It’s a real bitch to clean the damn thing. But at least you feel good about drinking something that’s good for your health. That’s probably why they introduced adult meds that taste like candy. My own blender has done more heavy grind than an underage stripper with her hips.
Walk-in closets are a major mystery to me. While they do come in handy to hide evidence and other sorts of mess, they imply abundance. You imagine shelves full of shoes, hangers with coats and dresses. This person leads a life with lots of excuses for traipsing around in sky-high Manolos and a designer dress. All that between tables loaded with champagne and fingerfood. My clothes fit into a single closet. A bigger space would subconsciously lure you into spending more on new stuff that mirror your bank balance. It’s not really about frugality, for me there’s simply no more joy to be found in ownership. Now it’s all about experiences and memories: the taste of wine or a cake with a white truffle and honey topping.
Then there’s the guest bedroom for friends and family. Just because they’re family doesn’t mean I need roommates. While it all looks like a little hotel room, I can’t imagine someone wanting to impose their presence on your routine for more than a single day or an evening. That’s why bachelors intentionally live in a comparatively smaller space that’s more like an upscale studio apartment. All the perks, none of the hassle. It doesn’t exclusively apply to housing. A friend bought a small Peugeot instead of a bigger vehicle. When I asked him why, he quipped he doesn’t want to be your own personal driver and if you need it, pay for a fucking cab.
There’s also the fireplace that everyone’s dying to have, to look at burning pieces of wood when their eyes get tired of Netflix until their eyebrows catch fire. A special circle of hell is meant for those electric fireplaces that are as impressive as an inflatable lover: merely a bland replacement for the original thing. I’ll never understand why people need both a living room and a family room. What do you do in one room that can’t be done in the other? Everything is growing beyond any real need for it: more bathrooms, bedrooms, cars, gyms, pools, like a small resort. You’d only have to get out for work and groceries. Both of which you can do from home anyway.
The only thing worse than those obese kitchen islands is a whole archipelago of them. That is, Unless you’re running a restaurant, a cooking school or hosting The Great British Bake-Off. Somewhere I’ve seen two next to each other and it’s unclear why someone who doesn’t regularly use their home for formal functions. You know, the kind you’d do in a sprawling mansion the driveway of which is as long as the runway of third-world airports. That means there must be something like ensuite bathrooms and a wine cellar in there as well. Which brings me to my favourite part: the reveal when the owners react with tears of joy and disbelief. I
It’s hard to tell if the tears are fake because there’s the occasional misfire when the proud owners aren’t swept off their feet, rather stunned in horror at what their home has turned into. Although it’s fun to watch the uneasy response of the designers, there’s things that are even worse. Like the episode of a makeover show where a couple was building the perfect family home: a beautiful view, comfort, and serenity that simple aesthetics invokes. However, the host of the show was later met by the owner standing there alone because they had divorced in the meantime, with the imposing house as the last testimony of the bliss they were hoping for.
He was waiting for a buyer because, according to him, the house was meant for a family which would fill all that space with energy. This shattered dream shows there’s no need to fix the shell if the core is rotten. While pondering on what might have been, he poured himself a drink, sitting in a lounge chair with a great view over the lake outside. And of course, that sleek kitchen island on which instead of a child’s toy, an abandoned bowl of mouldy lemons was sitting, with a bottle of fine wine next to it. A sinking lifeboat full of wishful thinking.
