I spent a long time thinking of my kitchen as a source of deep domestic embarrassment. This uncomfortable feeling may have come from watching too many cooking shows or staring at too many food blogs run by people whose spouses make a lot of money or more likely a combination of both. With every spacious kitchen island, gleaming subway tile backsplash, and inexplicably sparse countertop that came into view, the more inadequate I felt my own kleiner Kochplatz to be. The feeling is very much akin to the idea that watching too much pornography often makes men feel that their own, particular organs of matrimonial necessity are not as grand as the organs of matrimonial necessity they witness on screen. Not that I would know anything about that, of course.
In other words, I had kitchen envy. Until I met Marion Cunningham, that is.
The first time I heard the name “Marion Cunningham” used in a non-Happy Days-related sentence, the lofty epithet “the doyenne of American cooking” was involved.
For those of you left off Mrs. Astor’s guest list or are simply too exhausted to Google Translate the word, a doyenne is “a woman who is a senior member, as in age or rank, of a group, class, or profession.” Fair enough. I would never argue that Marion Cunningham was not “the doyenne of American cooking” but that’s never how I thought of her. Due either to my terrible French or the fact that I was only half listening, I initially confused the word “doyenne” for “douane”, which meant that my original notion of her was as “Marion Cunningham, the customs official of American cooking,” I could just see her sitting spine-straight in a bulletproof security booth at one of our international airports, her silver hair pulled back into a smooth chignon, proudly wearing her Department of Homeland Security badge and protecting American Cuisine from any undue Canadian influence.
Apart from the whole “doyenne” business, all I knew about her was that she wrote some cookbooks and worked with James Beard for a while. When my friend John, who also worked with Mr. Beard, asked me if I’d like to drive out to the East Bay to listen to senior citizen Dixieland music at a place called Freddy’s Pizzeria with Marion and her neighbors Nelda and Jewel, I thought, “Why the hell not?” My dance card was far from full at the time, which I want to assure you was no fault of Mrs. Astor.
I’m so glad I said “yes”.
Every few weeks, John and I would drive to Freddy’s in Lafayette (now defunct), meet up with Mrs. Cunningham and her neighbors to eat a little pizza, critique the salad bar, talk about life, and watch their friend Dee shake her feather boa and belt out classics like “Hard Hearted Hannah (The Vamp of Savannah)”.
If you’re hoping to hear more about that experience now, it’s far too nuanced a story to be properly dealt with in this post and likely deserves a place in my yet-to-be-written second memoir that I like to imagine will be published shortly after my death.
As our suburban dinner-and-a-show routine continued over the weeks and months and Marion’s health began to decline, she was no longer able to drive herself to Freddy’s. On one occasion, John offered to pick her up at her home and I naturally came along for the ride.
By this time, I was very familiar with her culinary CV and very curious to see the kitchen where this doyenne had created all that Fannie Farmer magic.
There is very little I can remember about the house— it was a mid-century affair, tidy and comfortable. The three things that left the greatest impression on me, however, were the portrait (in oil?) of a stately, younger version of Marion in the living room, a white forehead and a pair of eyes scrutinizing me from a darkened corner of the hallway, and a surprisingly small All-Electric Kitchen.
Those eyes, it was later explained to me were those of Marion’s daughter Cathy, who was (rightfully) suspicious of anyone new coming into the house— especially as her mother’s decline became more noticeable. There was a lot going on in there, but I was (and remain) privy to none of it. John had been Marion’s good friend for more than thirty years, I was his good friend, and all we were doing was taking Marion out for a night of fun. I didn’t spend much time inside the house, which was a blessing because it was clear to me that I had invaded some incredibly private space and wanted out as soon as possible. But as we were walking Marion to John’s car, all I could think was:
“Wow, what a shitty little kitchen.”
Yes, I realize that’s a very harsh way to describe the room, but it wasn’t meant as such. On the small side, true, but hardly excremental. I was just surprised by its ordinariness. The more I thought about her kitchen, however, the better I liked it. It was nothing special. Not glossy or photogenic. It appeared (at my quick glance) to have all the basics. In fact, the only thing I found lacking was pretense. This was the kitchen of a woman who, when asked by Alice Waters what she would like for her special 80th birthday dinner at Chez Panisse, requested an iceberg wedge salad with bleu cheese dressing. It was a kitchen designed for functionality and economy of motion.
That “shitty little kitchen” may be one of the reasons her cookbooks are so beloved. If the recipes within them could be made in hers, they could certainly be made in yours. To use a phrase that would have either amused or annoyed her (I haven’t decided which), Marion kept it real.
I was grateful that small glimpse into her cooking space made me feel much better about my own. Thank god, because it’s the second most used room in my apartment. And as I slowly ripen into silver-haired older gentlemanhood, I hope one day to be known among my peers as the doyen of something. I just hope it’s something pleasant.
“Michael Procopio, the doyen of standing over the sink eating ice cream in his underwear.”
That sounds about right.
Here are a few ways I’ve made my little kitchen a bit less sh*tty.
Oh my; if I tidied mine, it would surely compare favorably with yours, as mine is larger. Alas, for me that just means more space to clutter and mess up (I am NOT a tidy cook). I read your words because your urns if phrase often make me laugh out
Loud. Thanks for amusing (and enlightening)me.
I tried that but the only options seemed to be delete, hide, or provide link.