Love in the Kitchen

There are two kinds of love in the kitchen. The euphemistic one that really means steamy hot sex – potentially dangerous if you leave your knives out, and the second, hard won kind.

It’s the second kind I’m thinking about at the moment. The one reflected in kitchen tool ads where a handsome man pours EVOO into a pan while a pretty woman dices carrots at his shoulder. Big smiles, a shoulder exposed. Creating beauty together. Elements of nesting.

Setting aside for a second that oiling a pan with EVOO is a waste, that pouring it from three feet above the pan like an Asturian serving cider is more likely to grease the stovetop than the pan, and the woman chopping the veggie while looking at her guy is about to add thin slices of her epidermis to the carrot dice, it’s all very attractive.

Attractive, but man, not easy. Turns out it’s like any other part of a relationship: egos, sensitivity, varying skill levels, unspoken expectations leading to spoken disappointments. She looks over at you working and instead of feeling the eyes of affection you feel the eyes of judgment. She thinks I’m holding the knife incorrectly, or chopping the onions inefficiently, some shit like that. Or maybe I’m doing that to her. Neither of us have worked in a professional kitchen before, so the only experience we’ve had with others in that small hot space has come at holiday time with family. Based on that history, we are just waiting for a crappy experience.

That’s how we started. Each time we entered the kitchen together it seemed like a great idea – for about 30 minutes. Then someone had to walk away. Later an apology, and always the disappointing sense that we should be much better at this. We are good people, we care about each other, we like to cook. She’s really hot. Damn it, this should work. Each time . . . back to the drawing board.

It’s not like that anymore. Somewhere along the way we learned the dance, the footwork, and we started to flow.

I swear to you, if you stick it out, if you talk about your expectations (this is my station, that is yours, and don’t fuck with my mise), ask each other for help, help when asked, and give it a couple of years, you can get there. Perhaps without a therapist.

And you just might get back to having that first type of love in the kitchen, which is the one I’m thinking about now.