Opinion
My kitchen might be tiny, but it has everything I need. Here’s how to find the joy in small cooking spaces.
Emily Heil
Throughout my life, I’ve had dreams about finding rooms in my house I didn’t know existed. And because they are dreams — where I often behave improbably, like having conversations with Hillary Clinton or conducting espionage missions — I greet these previously hidden portions of my home not with the kind of oh-my-god-I’m-living-in-a-horror-movie terror that I would in real life, but rather with pleased surprise.
My unscientific online research tells me that these recurring visions likely mean I’m exploring my untapped potential or lost aspects of myself, which might very well be right — and that kind of analysis is certainly worth what I paid for it. But I think they might instead have to do with the fact that for my entire adult life, I’ve lived in small spaces. A tiny studio, a one-bedroom apartment, and, for the past 20 years, a narrow, historic terrace.
Perhaps I subconsciously long for larger living quarters. If I had to admit it, maybe it would be nice to have a more spacious guest room for friends or a secluded media room where my husband could watch football games and I wouldn’t hear his swearing. While I’m really dreaming, I suppose I wouldn’t mind a library or a home gym or a wine cellar. But one room whose diminutive size I’ve come to truly love and appreciate is our kitchen.
It’s a humble space, a galley less than three metres long, with no upper cabinets on one windowed wall. I love that I don’t have far to go from fridge to sink to stove. That coveted “work triangle” connecting those three points that you hear about in kitchen design is simply built in.
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Over the years, having minimal counter space has encouraged me to develop good habits, such as cleaning as I cook (I’m always mere centimetres from the rubbish bin, so throwing things away is a breeze), putting away fridge and pantry ingredients as soon as I’m done with them, and generally being more efficient.
When we have people over, they often cram into the kitchen even though it wasn’t specifically built for entertaining.
And not that I’m the most fastidious housekeeper, but a small kitchen is so much easier to keep clean.
I often come to appreciate my snug space anew after I’ve been cooking in other people’s kitchens or in the beach rental we’ve visited for years. I’m struck, when moving around those bigger spaces, at how inconvenient they can be. It’s harder to multitask when the pot you’re supposed to be stirring is far from the area where you’re chopping vegetables. And it’s easier to sweep your scraps into the bin instead of carrying them there. I like getting my daily step count in, but I’d rather not do that while prepping dinner.
Over the years, we’ve made our little kitchen our own, including installing reclaimed wood floors that I painted in a checkerboard pattern. We traded grey faux stone benches for honed marble ones that have developed a patina like a century-old bistro’s bar. And that’s another thing to love: Because of the small size, these updates cost relatively little.
When we have people over, they often cram into the kitchen even though it wasn’t specifically built for entertaining. When conversation and cocktails are flowing, no one seems to mind that there’s no island or coffee station.
Our setup works for my husband and me, and I know people with kids and bigger families probably live and cook very differently. Usually, it’s one of us cooking solo, and when it’s the two of us in there together, we generally have no problem making it work. We even bought a little stool (which doubles as an extra surface for perching groceries or dishes when we’re entertaining) so that we can keep one another company. It might not be a double island from a renovation show (seriously, who needs those things?), but it gets the job done.
A diminutive kitchen might not be for everyone, but here are a few ways I’ve found that less really can be more.
Embrace limitations
Using only the space I have keeps me from accumulating unnecessary stuff. There’s only one drawer for tea towels and oven mitts. One shelf for storage containers. One drawer for spices. If there’s overflow, something simply has to go – and something always can, whether it’s a three-year-old shaker of cinnamon or a singed pot holder. I don’t keep loads of things like glass jars or insulated drink carriers – one or two of each are all I have room for (and that’s okay).
Make it fashion
In tight quarters, visible storage has an outsize visual impact, so whenever possible, I try to make choices that are both aesthetic and functional, which brings me joy. Instead of a generic vessel, I use an antique crock by the stove to keep my most-used tools close at hand. I love a wall-mounted knife holder for its space-saving properties, so I found a smooth wooden one on Etsy rather than using a plastic or stainless version with visible magnetic strips. We display a cut-glass bowl for fruit, and a small silver-plated dish to hold garlic and shallots. (Many of these things can be found for a few bucks at op shops.)
Think beyond the kitchen
If you need things for cooking or dining and really don’t have room in your kitchen proper, you can usually find a few centimetres elsewhere in your home. I keep all our entertaining supplies, including serving pieces and extra cutlery (antique and vintage, which I store vertically in vases) in a cabinet in the dining room. Having to think creatively about your entire space can help you prioritise what is really important — in the kitchen and out.
Use it as an excuse
So you don’t want to inherit your great-aunt’s casserole dish or your parents’ wedding china? “Oh, so sorry, we just don’t have room!” is an irrefutable reason not to bring them home. It might even discourage family members from giving you impractical kitchen gifts, and if they do, it gives you the emotional freedom to donate them without guilt or hesitation.
Washington Post
