Whenever I fantasized about my future kitchen, I always
pictured a fantastic island. This very-specific vision was quite possibly
directly tied to the fact that two out of my last three homes didn't even have
counters. Or, perhaps, the steady diet of home improvement shows I watched with
my mom while growing up — was there no feature more glamorous in the '80s and
'90s than a kitchen with an island? (Meanwhile, I grew up in the standard
charming '80s house with a U-shaped kitchen.)
A kitchen island represented the luxury of space for
cooking, baking, and entertaining. It held the possibility that, one day, I'd
have enough room to store my very specific set of novelty baking pans. I
pictured myself enjoying a glass of wine while actually using the pasta maker I
once bought in a fit of Nigella Lawson-inspired optimism. My friends would
gather around the island, laughing as if we were in a Nancy Meyers movie and I
would be Meryl Streep. Or, perhaps I would somehow acquire the patina of Hamptons-esque
ease of Ina Garten, and my husband would be my Jeffrey. Maybe, just maybe, we
would stop living as if we were children who were suddenly granted their wish
to be adults. No more pizza nights. Vegetables would be eaten (other than baby
carrots). The island would magically civilize us into our best possible
versions of ourselves.
With such lofty ambitions, it was only inevitable that
reality would come crashing down like so many novelty baking pans. When we
moved to our latest apartment, we were excited to see that the dream feature
was part of the open-concept kitchen. Its design is like the above kitchen: No
sink, no range, just lots of countertop. Yet it only took a few weeks before we
realized that a kitchen island is way more trouble than its worth — at least in
our household. Here are just a few reasons why:
1. It presents a new counter for our cat to call
"home.": In the ongoing turf war between us and our (much-loved,
but very "spirited") cat, the kitchen island is an extremely
vulnerable space. You can't keep her away from the other counters AND the
island, and since it's an open kitchen, you can't close a door to keep her out.
And her most cherished goal in life is to be on a kitchen counter. If she had a
Pinterest board, it would solely be of counters to eventually walk on and
mantras about climbing the highest counter. You just can't stop her. She just
wants to survey the landscape as if she were Simba in The Lion King.
2. The island is a magnet for messes: One second it's clear, the next, it's covered in junk
mail, groceries, and other layers of defeat. It's the downside of having an
expanse of counter space: The instinct is to fill it with all of the clutter
that gives Marie Kondo nightmares.
3. But even when we keep it clear, the island still looks
messy: This is my ongoing problem with open floor plans:
Everything's a focal point. When the island is clean, there's still a heavy
butcher block cutting board and a toaster on it, which just make it look
cluttered. Which brings me to:
4. Appliances look very awkward on an island: Since our main counters house the sink and stove, there's
little space for the day-to-day appliances we need. Most are designed with the
idea that you'll only see the fronts, not the backs of the things. Everything's
on view on an island.
5. It's a conversation-stopper: Again, a problem that mostly has to do with the open
floor plan, which goes hand-in-hand with the kitchen island. If we're
entertaining and I have to make snacks (inevitably on the island), all
conversation stops to watch me. After all, I'm facing them at this island. So I
got my dream of being Ina Garten, in that I feel as if I'm on a cooking show
where the menus are limited to recipes handed down to me from the side of a
Ritz cracker box. Or, if we're fancy, opening packages from Trader Joe's. So,
nothing like Ina Garten.
6. No one sits at the island: You can put out all the stools you'd like, but the island
is likely the last place guests will sit. Stools are not built for comfort,
unless you're at a bar and have consumed enough cocktails to not mind the dull
ache of a harsh wood/metal seat. And besides, if guests are sitting at the
island, that means you're stuck standing (or prepping food) at the island.
Don't mind me, everyone! I'm more than happy to let you watch me fight the urge
to use my bare hands to place goat cheese rounds on crackers, even though it
would be way easier. For my next trick, I'll wash my hands every five seconds
to prove that I'm not gross.
Overall, these are just the functional problems of an
island. That's not to say that there haven't been gorgeous islands. In fact, I
still hold out hope that a well-designed island could be in my cards for future
homes. Just not for me, right now. Unless you're my cat.
Courtesy: House Beautiful.
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