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.
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