girl versus kitchen

I don’t know if this is normal, but sometimes I wonder what David Attenborough would say about me if I were as alien and beautiful as the blue whale or the puma. Can’t you just hear his rich, erudite tones narrating my weeknights?

‘Here we see the young female lit student in her natural habitat: a dimly lit bedroom strewn with books and a floordrobe, her face illuminated by an episode of Girls on her Macbook as she mindlessly shoves cheese Twisties into her gaping mouth. This is a far cry from the dazzling creature of last night; the lit student’s mating rituals, which involve the application of gaudy colours and the consumption of a potentially harmful amount of cheap wine, are displayed routinely between the hours of 8pm and 4am on Thursdays through Sundays.’

How times have changed. Not so long ago, the natural habitat of a mid-twenties lady would have been the kitchen, and her mating ritual something involving shortcrust pastry. Thankfully I got to choose my own natural habitat, but the legacy of the kitchen still haunts me. It just sits there, at the end of the hallway, smugly inevitable. Want a cup of tea? Want to heat up that korma? Want to stand aimlessly in front of the fridge hoping that if you stare at its contents long enough they’ll morph from onions and jars of mayonnaise into a chocolate paradise? What the kitchen wants, the kitchen will have. And the kitchen wants us.

Welcome to the new kitchen culture. Post-feminism, the kitchen is no longer a realm of aproned bosoms and pies on windowsills. Post-Jamie Oliver, the kitchen is a realm of gadgets fancier and more expensive than the traditional male arsenal of power tools and things with unnecessary screens. Post-Nigella Lawson, it’s a realm of figuring out what letter “tea” starts with and sneaking down to the fridge at 4am to eat something that has really expensive olives in it. Post-George Clooney, it’s a realm of wearing a $3000 suit and whispering words that sound vaguely Italian but aren’t while making coffee from a tablet to impress your guests. The kitchen as a space is becoming less and less gendered all the time. It’s becoming cultured, classed and desirable. But is it accessible?

Now that my sex no longer belongs to the kitchen, the kitchen’s supposed to belong to me. Reality shows like Master Chef and instructive ones like 15 Minute Meals tell me that yes! I can make Cajun chicken for ten people in less than an hour! I should already know what terms like “bain-marie” and “parboil” mean! I should definitely own a KitchenAid if I’m serious about eating like a real member of the bourgeoisie! I mean come on! An $800 pastel-tinted mixing appliance is the new cast of Downton Abbey, right? Shit, because I have about as much domestic ability as that guy in Fresh Meat who tried to spread jam on his bread with a sword. I can cook; I just can’t cook anything beyond your basic spag bog.

Unfortunately, there’s no such thing as the sudden discovery of heretofore dormant domestic skills. I’m not going to unexpectedly find that I can roast some kind of fowl just because I have a man/brood to roast it for. I’m thankful for that. I’m thankful that talent in the kitchen, although prized and glorified beyond belief, remains optional. I’m thankful that it’s totally OK for me to enjoy the kitchen culture and its celebrities from the comfort of my native doona. Jamie Oliver has Instagram, you know.