Meditations On The Kitchen

Men who choose to pioneer the domestic wilderness must always be aware of who's territory they are treading upon. There are boundaries that you cannot see and emotional pitfalls are lurking were you least suspect them. You need to look for invisible turf markers and steer clear of hallowed ground. Above all, tread lightly in Mommy's kitchen.

When I got married I knew I had closed the biggest deal of my life. Mommy was and is beautiful, just to look at. Like most men, looks and sensuality were all I really noticed about her at first and, being incredibly shallow, that probably would have been enough to get me to the altar. However by the time I said, “I do”, I knew that she was so much more. She was funny, she was brilliant, she loved football. Most importantly she loved to make me happy. However, when our honeymoon flight touched down and we settled into domestic tranquility the last thing I expected was that she could cook. No, I would have to be the chef in the household.

In the four years of courtship that culminated in our nuptials Mommy had never shown the ability to peel a banana let alone cook a meal. She lived with her Sicilian mother and never failed to take advantage of that fact. Overcleaning, overcooking and gambling were “Nunny”s three big vices. When I said, “I do” I presumed that only the gambling gene had passed down to her daughter.

As we began our life together something quite surprising occurred. My wife of mere days who had never boiled water walked into the kitchen and prepared a wonderful Italian Sunday dinner. Pasta, fried chicken and garlic bread were prepared to intoxicating perfection. Even the cauliflower was presented the only way I have ever been able to digest it. Perhaps it was Sicilian genetics. More likely it was twenty-five years of watching her mother cook four hours each day. Either way the 9.5 that I married became a perfect 10 when I found out how well she could cook.

Despite my wife's kitchen skills, we ate out a lot, as do most newlyweds. Sandwiches were more than acceptable dinner fare in those Double-Income-No-Kids years. After children came dining became even more informal. We both worked long hours through the first four years of parenting so who “prepared” dinner usually fell to who made it home first. Still, when time permitted a big dinner, Mommy was the queen of the kitchen.

A microscopic part of the decision for me to stay home with the kids was that with an adult in the house full time we could eat home cooked meals everyday. In addition to keeping money that would otherwise have gone to McDonald's, we had both grown up in families where everyone got together once a day for dinner. This was invaluable time when days got dissected, plans got made and gossip was swapped. This is when real family business gets done. Traditions like this cement a clan. Thus I dedicated myself to having food on the table every evening. Mind you, it is not always a hearty family menu, as I believe it is more important how you eat than what you eat. I am not above serving potato chips and dip as a side dish because I know the non-stop conversation will be nourishing enough.

I now do about 90% of the cooking in the house. Even when Mommy cooks I do 90% of the chopping and cutting. It literally makes me ill to watch her cut left-handed. Each stroke looks like Step One of Hara-Kari. However, after three years I am careful not to take liberties with Mommy's kitchen. I am only renting it for a time. This means not putting essentials on the top shelf where only I can reach them. It means not replacing appliances, large or small without consultation. Most importantly it means never, ever, referring to the commissary as “my kitchen”. A woman wants to know that regardless of the current circumstances the kitchen is and will always be, her birthright.

For fathers out there who don't get the message, imagine if your wife decided to go into the doll business and she took over your garage. When you came home from work the next day all of your tools were cleaned and relegated to the basement closet. All your bolts and fasteners were filed in Tupperware out of reach behind mothball scented hats on the closet shelf. Your collection of slightly used caulk is gone with the trash and above the workbench glares a neon sign proclaiming, “Hello Dolly!”

So what if you haven't “Gone Fishin'” since the Reagan administration, you want that plaque on your garage wall. Even if you have to wait until retirement to clean it, that garage is your birthright as a man. Someday that canoe in the corner will get wet and someday you will teach your son how to unhook a fish. Well, that kitchen is Mommy's birthright too and one of these days she is going to kick you out of there.

Respecting traditional boundaries can be very important in maintaining a relationship. Sometimes the most antiquated notions can convey the most timeless respect. Mommy has to fight with herself everyday when she leaves her house. She fills a role that no woman on television or in storybooks modeled in her childhood. Strong women who supported their families did abound in this nation prior to the Clinton administration but if they ever snuck into books or movies it was as a “triumph of will” cautionary tale. Our culture has not prepared her to be the hunter any more than it has prepared us to be the nurturers.
As confident as my career girl can appear on the outside, on the inside a part of her still wants to be June Cleaver. Daydreams of long afternoons spent talking with friends on the phone while mastering the perfect scone recipe can ease a lot of evolutionary growing pains. That's why the plaque on the kitchen wall says, “Mommy's Kitchen” and the plaque in the garage says, “Gone Fishin'”.