Kitchen Angst

Over the summer, I am living in a tiny (and by tiny I mean deceptively large) house on a gorgeous lake with 15 other people, some of whom I have known for ages and are among my closest friends. It's fantastic about 85% of the time. The other 15% encompasses time spent cooking and/or eating. You see, even though the house is gigantic, our kitchen is slightly larger than the walk-in beer refrigerator at our local supermarket. (Sorry if that isn't helpful, but I'm no good with dimensions...but if it helps, despite being in a college town, that refrigerator isn't anything to write home about.)
Part of the problem is that there a table in the middle of the kitchen. Cute? Yes. In the way? You better believe it. Only has three chairs? Damn right. (Just a side note on that--really? What sort of place has a kitchen table with only three chairs? Better yet, what kind of house that has 16 people living in it only has three chairs? So many questions!)There are two fridges, which is nice, but they are way overcrowded and one risks bodily harm every time a door is opened. This morning, I was attacked by a pound of pizza dough that has been teetering on the edge of the shelf above mine; this afternoon it was half a gallon of cranberry juice that flew from its perch on the door every time someone reached in for cold cuts.

I suppose part of the problem is crowding--the entire house is in the kitchen between 8 and 9, noon and 1, and 6 and 7, but it's also the type of people, I think. I'm developing this theory in which everyone has his or her own kitchen personality. I am what I like to call a kitchen diva--I need my space, it can't be too hot, there better be counter space, and you better not use my soy sauce. There are a few other kitchen divas in the house, but there are also those practicing for the Olympic pairs figure-cooking competition (invariably takes both parties involved to make a meal. Both must watch pots of water boil, both must be involved in the dumping of weird $2/lb meat down the sink, and both must avoid eye contact with all others in the kitchen), those who lurk (some open the oven door while you are tending to an omelette on the stove, nearly bowling you over without as much as a word; there are others who silently wash three apples, take exactly one bite out of each, before throwing them all out and making their way to the corner to watch you eat your bowl of cereal). Still, there are those who make dinnertime into a competition about wealth ("Oh these are from Chile, you see," they'll explain, accent and all. "I think they're out of season here...") and those who make it absolutely miserable by dumping half of the pasta you had sitting in a collander into the sink itself, ignorning the fact that it happened, and lying about it when asked.

I love cooking, I really do! I have a cart of cookbooks saved on Amazon, just waiting for me to make up my mind (it's tough, really. Bitchin' Kitchen or Traditional Irish Recipes? Options, options, options). And I do have quiet a formidable apron collection, all sitting in storage just waiting to be used. But all of this kitchen drama has given me "kitchen angst" (as some of my friends have named it),and a summer of eating cereal exclusively is starting to look like a pretty decent option.