But I WANT them. I want a kitchen full of state of the art cooking implements. I want to be able to cook complicated soufflés and dessert items that require things like a pastry knife and candy thermometer. Only god knows why. I have no taste for complicated soufflés and dessert items that require things like a pastry knife and candy thermometer.
I think I would be most happy if I had a magic kitchen. A kitchen that I didn't have to take care of at all but was always magically stocked on the off chance I wanted to make a mincemeat pie. Maybe it could be like a secret room behind a false wall. And you would have to pull on a wall sconce to get it to slide open. So people could come over and I would say "Mincemeat pie anyone?" and I'd pull on the sconce and tada! there would be the kitchen. And maybe Oompa Loompas could live in the crawlspace under the cabinets and only come out to make sure everything was clean and that none of the plates were chipped. Or midgets. Either way, I don't care as long as they are little and unobtrusive.
It could be like one of those old timey looking kitchens like in The Color Purple where all the pots and pans are copper bottomed and they hang on a rack above a wood burning stove. I would say things like "Could you get me the butter from the larder?" just to keep in with that old timey feel. Then I would suggest that someone turn the crank on the ice cream churn so that it would be ready in time for when my made-entirely-from-scratch seasonal berry cobbler came out of the oven. I would allow for modern conveniences though, like a Sub-Zero freezer and a FryDaddy.
My kitchen would have entire sets of separate measuring cups for dry and liquid measures and I would give disapproving looks to friends who used them inappropriately during my semi-monthly cornbread challenge. Then I would just chuckle softly to myself because I always used the measuring cups correctly and I had a 200-year-old cast-iron skillet that I cooked the cornbread in, so naturally I would always win the cornbread challenge. Later when everyone had gone and I had given all the losers cornbread to the midgets before they settled back in the crawlspace, I would wonder why they even bothered.
Sometimes the producers from the show Iron Chef would send me letters trying to convince me to do a sort of down-home version of Iron Chef. They would suggest that I do head-to-head challenges with famous chefs where I prepared everything in my kitchen and they prepared everything in their restaurant. Then all my food would be packed in dry ice and life-flighted to the restaurant for a taste challenge. I would always just crumple the letter up and toss it in the wood burning stove, since I knew that it would simply be unfair seeing as how my kitchen was the most awesomest stocked kitchen on both coasts.
Of course I would have problems in my kitchen just like anyone else. Sometimes the midgets would try to unionize or the copper bottomed pots would tarnish. But I would always realize that this too shall pass and I would squelch the midget uprising just in time for them to polish all the pans before my annual canning party.
Tonight I went to put something in the microwave and I found all my tax paperwork. I think maybe I'll check the oven for that three-quarter-sleeve black shirt I can't seem to locate anywhere.
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