The lessons I’ve learned from an impossibly tiny kitchen

If you’re a first-year student getting ready to move into an off-campus house, you’re probably hoping for a kitchen that’s functional. Well, I got a kitchen that isn’t—and three years later, it’s the best thing that ever happened to me.

It was in my tiny excuse of a kitchen where I first learned my housemate, Jadyn, refuses to speak for thirty minutes after she first wakes up. I only learned this in my third year living with her, as typically, by the time I’m awake, she has been busy for hours—having already made breakfast and gone to the gym.

By the time I finally enter our cramped little kitchen, she’s already cooking lunch and greets me with a sarcastic “good morning.” In a remarkable coincidence, my other three housemates then come barreling in all at once, filling the kitchen until our shoulders are touching and the stove becomes invisible under a cluster of pots and pans. Whether this kitchen chaos results in laughter or tension is entirely dependent on who was eliminated on the reality competition show we watched the night before.

Soon after, someone opens the mini-fridge and comes to the realization that Elle has forgetfully bought another carton of eggs, bringing our total egg supply to six cartons. I joke that we’re well-stocked to egg a house, which then turns into an unrelated and unnecessarily passionate debate over which ex-boyfriend or failed friendship is most deserving.

Eventually, Sami realizes that, in the heat of it all, she has allowed the latest attempt to replicate her Nonna’s gnocchi to burn, and we all join in on desperately fanning the smoke to avoid another false fire alarm fiasco.

Over the years, dinner has tended to be more peaceful. We usually cook at different times, except for Sunday nights, when there is often an intentional effort to have some sort of family meal. We all rush to claim a seat on the couch, as whoever arrives last is forced to sit on the floor, filled with regrets of having auctioned off our table in order to buy more posters and string lights.

On such nights, it would likely make sense to have one person cook for all five of us, but nothing in our kitchen makes sense—and I think we all secretly prefer the chaos.

After the evening rush, the kitchen typically remains quiet, with the exception of the toaster, as a buttered bagel is considered a midnight delicacy in our house. This calm, however, is quickly shattered on Friday nights, during which the kitchen acts as one of those sleazy back rooms you see at clubs, the ones in which all the girls seem a little too drunk. Carey yells out a promise that she’ll be “so-o-o-o fine” as she opens yet another cooler.

We all know that she isn’t going to be fine, but the same could be said about any of us. Regardless, we’re all equally excited to take part in the blaze of glory that will indubitably end with a thousand and one unclaimed cups in the kitchen sink.

Over the past three years, my housemates often suggested moving. They’ve had dreams of finding a kitchen with more counter space, or maybe even a functioning, normal-sized fridge. They lamented having to regularly check the mouse trap behind the microwave and took little joy in the constant discovery of concealed mold in the crevices of our cabinets. This wasn’t helped by our landlord raising our rent, oblivious to any ethical dilemmas in charging students more than a grand for a half-broken stove.

To me, however, our kitchen is perfect. It’s where our mismatched schedules finally collide, even if it’s only for a brief moment. It’s where we’ve haphazardly iced a thousand birthday cakes, mixed enough barely-drinkable cocktails to sink a ship, and once decorated our floor with a mountain of bubbles—leading to the infamous realization that dish soap and dishwasher detergent are not in fact interchangeable.

Most vividly, it’s where I was first brought to tears by the overwhelming love I have for the women in my life.

So, here’s the deal first-years; no matter what you’re paying for your student house, I can almost guarantee that you’ll have your own “tiny kitchen.” This is student housing in Kingston, after all. It may take the form of a cramped living room, a packed mudroom, or even an unfinished basement. But wherever the space and whatever the problem, my message remains the same: lean into the absurd.

I’m not saying you shouldn’t demand better from your landlord when a problem is fixable; you have to advocate for yourself whenever possible. But for those unfixable problems—thin walls that simply can’t be made thicker, or an oversized table that you brought up the stairs and now can’t bring back down—don’t let them ruin your day. It’s nice to wake up to the sound of your housemates giggling, and one day that table might help you host a great Friendsgiving dinner.

Living with four other twenty-year-olds can be a tricky minefield to navigate, but if you try to let the struggles of it bring you together, rather than tear you apart, you’re off to a good start.

The lessons I’ve learned from an impossibly tiny kitchen

Tags: