My other kitchen is a hotel

My other kitchen. Courtesy Flickr aeminphilly

As the six-month anniversary of my little experiment in self-expression draws near, I note that there seems to be a bit of confusion among my readers as to my feelings about the domestic arts in general and cooking in particular. Frankly, this surprises me since my opinion on the subject appears, at least to me, to have been made abundantly clear in this, my little corner of the web. But in the interest of enlightenment and with an eye toward full disclosure, let me be clear.

I would be completely happy if I never cooked another damned meal*,  set foot in a fully functional kitchen, or laid eyes on a vacuum cleaner again for the rest of my life. 

Oh yes, I would be perfectly content to order in or dine out every night for the remainder of my time in this earthly paradise, and if someone wanted to meet me for lunch most days, that would be fine too. In fact, I’d be willing to forego the midday meal altogether just to avoid having to provision, prepare and clear it. If you’d ever had a squint at me, you’d understand the enormity of that statement. Let’s just say you could count the number of meals I have missed in the past year on one hand without stressing the pinky or thumb unduly and leave it at that.

I would miss housekeeping even less than cooking, and so I am flummoxed when I hear my friends (to clarify, my older friends) talking about downsizing plans that involve offloading houses and acquiring condominiums. Yes, it’s less square footage, and not so much hassle, but you still own the damned thing. When the toilet backs up it’s you wielding the plunger. If the Baked Alaska suddenly becomes the Towering Inferno, you’d best know where the fire extinguisher is and how to use it (not to mention being able to convince the firefighters you were in full possession of your faculties when the “incident” occurred, but that’s a story for another day). And when the refrigerator gives up the ghost, you’ve got to source and buy another, only to start the whole ugly business of meal prep over again. Ditto the stove. And who in his right mind would want to do that, for pity’s sake?

Now I do have friends who have very cleverly repurposed their kitchen appliances as storage, and if I owned furs (I don’t, I just can’t), I would certainly keep them in the fridge. I used to keep my film there, but digital photography has eliminated the need. As it is, my nail polish collection is doing well on ice, but really, who has that much lacquer? So it’s either unplug the damned thing or fill it up. And once it’s filled, you’ve got to cook. Really it’s that simple. And that sad.

So, imagine how thrilled I was recently to hear a fresh solution to the downsizing question from none other than my brilliant cousin, Rebecca! Ready? Here it is: Skip the condo, bypass the rental apartment and go straight to a hotel.


Consider  — there’s no kitchen, save for a coffee maker and a minibar (what else do you really need?). You get room service, daily maid service (provided by someone other than yourself), laundry service, porters, and your bed turned down every night with a little mint on the pillow. And the bar is right downstairs!  It would be just like assisted living, but without  the colostomy bags, institutional food and restraints. In fact, come to think of it, it would be very like Betty Ford, sans Betty or any of the other killjoys who infest her establishment.

Why was this woman smiling? Because she still had cocktail hour to look forward to after a hard day at the ballpark. Many people don’t realize what a baseball fan Mrs Ford was or how critical her support for clearer stats and the Earned Run Average movement was. Courtesy Wikipedia.

Just thinking about the possibilities of permanent guest status nearly makes me drop to the floor and rock in a frenzy of overstimulated bliss. My path is clear, now if I could just get my head to follow.

* NOTE: Exceptions would of course be made for the odd dinner party, provided it was limited to no more than eight guests and someone else cleaned up.

About WSW

Writer, wife, mother. Toiler in the bottomless, black, soul-sucking coal mine of domestic life. Thank God for the portable bar.

Posted on February 15, 2012, in Cocktails!, Cooking, Drudgery, Good to know, The easy way and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 17 Comments.

  1. Amen, sister. My lack of dishwasher is what REALLY sends me through the roof. And come on, boyfriend, can we really not just rinse the dishes instead of leaving them on the counter so the food can turn to cement?!

    Ahhh, room service….


  2. I look forward to your posts. You make my day and I laugh so much my stomach hurts…you are a pisser…..

  3. No prob. But, like, for the record, we haven’t been, like, BFFs since I married that one guy, like, who shall remain nameless and had, like, two babies and, like, got fat. Okay, my therapist says that 105 pounds isn’t fat, but I’m small-boned. Oh, why can’t I be my daddy’s Ballerina Girl anymore?

  4. I’d like to point out that Paris Hilton lived as a “guest” in her family’s hotel for quite some time. I’m pretty sure this is why she used the word “hot” a lot. If people waited on me all day, cooked for me, did my laundry and placed a chocolate on my turned-down bedsheets every night, I’d say “hot” all the time, too. I’d be in a blissed-out stupor. I’d have time to work on perfumes named after me and emblazoned with my likeness. Knowing the lush that you are, Kitchen Slattern, I would expect the mini-bar would get expensive, though.

    Oh, on a completely unrelated note, brilliant post. You’re so damn funny! Keep earning that Freshly Pressed-ness. Oh, and as a blogger, I really appreciate the fact that you didn’t make me stress my pinky or thumb. I hit the space bar a lot.

    • Thanks for, like, letting my identity, like, out of the bag. I thought we were BFFs, but like, we’re so over. You are so not hot anymore. But,like, I’ll still read your blog cuz you are so, like, smart?

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