It’s nice to have a kitchen, considering that it literally sustains our lives. As we all know only too well, we must perpetually feed the beast within.
Granted, we could eat out, get takeout or opt for fast-food choices. But then we’d eventually wind up broke and fat. And once we went broke, we’d wind up starving to death.
Nothing is more ironic than dying of starvation while you’re obese.
So I’m grateful for our kitchen, a great place to prepare and consume food. Of course, we could opt to eat in our family room. But my wife has this thing about spilling gravy on the carpet or dropping string beans between sofa cushions.
Since our family room flows right into our kitchen in what the folks on HGTV call a great room, all the awful racket emanating from the kitchen intrudes big time on the serenity of my television watching.
OK, I realize that things could be worse. I could be the one cooking the meal and cleaning up the shrapnel. But since I lucked out and my mealtime duties are confined to merely cleaning up the table, my only issue is the noise and ruckus my wife generates in conjunction with our nightly feast.
Even Metallica with screeching amps isn’t that loud. Ditto standing next to Top Fuel dragsters revving up at Maple Grove Raceway.
Before I come across as a chronic complainer, the level of our kitchen racket has been minimized to a degree by the purchase of a new dishwasher.
Our old dishwasher was so loud that our neighbors purchased earplugs. That dishwasher really messed up my TV time. I had to jack up the volume so high on the remote that birds flew south even in the summer.
Even with the new dishwasher, our kitchen still sounds as if World War III breaks out on a nightly basis. And no peace accords are in sight.
The main culprits in the preparation and cleanup are pots and pans. My wife never seems to need the pots and pans that are convenient to locate in our cupboards.
Rather, she needs to remove several thousand of them each evening to locate the ones that she needs that always seem to be wedged into the very back of the cupboards.
The clanging and banging as she conducts these search-and-rescue missions are enough to wake up the dead. In fact, I believe our home is haunted because the constant clamor in the kitchen has roused ghosts.
At least our home doesn’t have any skeletons in the closets. The crescendo of noise long ago shattered the bones of any skeletons we had.
Needless to say, the ear-shattering process is replayed after dinner when all the pots and pans have to be resorted and repositioned to get them somehow shoehorned back into the cupboards.
I soon may beg my wife to make only salads or we will have to convert our two-car garage into a pantry for pots and pans.
A full stomach may be good for the body and soul, but a daily diet of sound waves replicating Napoleonic cannon fire is difficult to digest.