My Tiny Kitchen

I have a small kitchen and it doubles up as the laundry room. I live in Los Feliz, a suburb of Los Angeles that is a uniquely west coast mix of affluence and gang influence. It clings to the last spectral attitude typical in aging punk rockers, tattooed with the slogans of their disaffection. Because of this -or in spite of this- space is at a premium, so severe tradeoffs had to be negotiated by the developers. Built in 1924, my home wasn’t prepared for the ripple of development that endowed creativity into the design and personal interest in building techniques. Eighty one years of innovation have passed, nothing applied to my kitchen except a poorly conceived upgrade in 1976. Glazed maple trim compliments white plastic adorned particleboard cabinet doors. It looks like a cheap set from a John Waters movie.

Yet, I make the best of it. I bought a chopping block island from Ikea, engineered and designed during the Sterile but Functional era. Like, I’ve just described 95% of Ikea’s catalogue. Swedish ingenuity, designed and blended with a perfectly unremarkable landscape and architecture in mind. I put it smack in the middle of the kitchen to serve as a wood island and extra work surface. And mail collector. And car keys. By the weekend it has so much junk accumulated, it looks like a garbage barge headed to Islip.

It serves me well. Spartan, almost Soviet Bloc, my kitchen is as unsophisticated as a Rwandan mobile home. You see, you don’t need a Viking professional stove, or a fondue pot to cook and serve food properly. Fire is all you need, and the skill to control it. Or not. You can swirl a quick ceviche on a bowl for later consumption. Cure gravlax in the fridge. Make jerkey from a rattlesnake on the Smoky Joe.

My point is, you could be stuck with an acetylene torch and a slab of granite and still cook up a four star omlette. It all depends on how you use the tools at your disposal.