Lisa O
Kitchens are where the magic happens—meals, messes and moments you never share with anyone. Sure, it’s the heart of the home, but it’s also where you do all the weird little things that you’d never confess out loud. Everyone likes to pretend they follow the recipe, clean as they go, and eat only when it’s ready. But let’s be honest: here’s what really goes down behind those cabinet doors.
You eat over the sink like it’s a plate.
Sometimes you’re just not in the mood to sit at a table, so you hover by the sink and snack with one hand while the other’s bracing you against the counter. It’s not glamorous, but it’s easy cleanup and strangely satisfying. No dishes, no napkins, no judgment—just you, a spoon, and whatever you could grab from the fridge before someone walked in.
You sniff something three times before deciding.
That container has lived in your fridge a little too long, and you know it. But instead of tossing it, you open it, sniff it, close it, then sniff again just to be sure. And sometimes, if the third sniff doesn’t knock you out cold, you go ahead and eat it anyway. Risky? Maybe. But you’d never admit how many times it’s worked out just fine.
You pretend you didn’t drop it.
That piece of chicken hit the floor—but you looked around, gave it a quick rinse, and tossed it back in the pan like nothing happened. The “five-second rule” becomes more like “no one saw, so it’s fine.” Floors get cleaned eventually. What matters is that dinner wasn’t ruined. You’d never serve it to guests… but for yourself? Totally acceptable.
You use the same spoon for tasting over and over.
You start with good intentions—one clean spoon per taste. But somewhere between the sauce and the seasoning, you’re reusing the same one because washing it every time feels ridiculous. It’s your food, your germs, and your rules. You’d never do it at someone else’s house, but in your own kitchen? Hygiene takes a slight backseat to convenience.
You eat ingredients while cooking.
You’re chopping cheese for a recipe and suddenly half of it disappears into your mouth. A few olives, suddenly gone. That bacon you just fried? Two strips vanished. You blame “quality control,” but deep down, you know it’s just kitchen snacking at its finest. Recipes always say “serves four,” but they never account for what gets eaten in between.
You leave a “clean enough” dish in the sink.
That casserole dish “soaking” in the sink? It’s been there for three days, and you’re hoping it’ll clean itself. You swish a little water in it every time you walk by, convincing yourself it’s progress. Eventually, you’ll tackle it—but only after it starts to haunt you. Until then, it’s soaking. Permanently.
You eyeball every measurement.
You could reach for a measuring cup—but you don’t. Instead, you pour straight from the bag, eyeball the salt, and guess the oil. You tell yourself it’s “intuition” or “cooking from the heart,” but really, you just can’t be bothered to wash extra tools. And if it tastes off? You say the recipe was probably wrong.
You throw away food with the container still sealed.
That yogurt? Unopened but expired. The salad mix? Never even opened. And you feel a weird sense of guilt tossing it, so you shove it to the back of the fridge until it becomes someone else’s problem. When the day comes, you toss it—lid and all—pretending it was never there. Out of sight, out of shame.
You open the oven just to feel the warmth.
You’re cold, the house is quiet, and the oven is on. So you crack the door open, stand in front of it, and soak in the heat like it’s a mini spa moment. You tell yourself you’re “checking on dinner,” but really, you’re just enjoying the closest thing to a fireplace you’ve got. No one needs to know.
You use your shirt as a potholder.
You know you shouldn’t, but that dish towel is always just out of reach. So you fold your shirt over a few times and hope for the best. Sometimes it works. Sometimes you yelp and drop the pan back onto the rack like nothing happened. But either way, the real potholder remains mysteriously missing.
You eat the weird leftovers that no one else will.
There’s half a fish stick, two spoonfuls of cold pasta, and some questionable rice in the fridge. Most people would toss it. You? You call it lunch. It’s not a meal—it’s a cleanup mission disguised as a snack. No one sees it, and that’s the way you like it. Shame has no place between you and a clean fridge.
You rinse dishes that were already clean.
Someone else did the dishes, but you don’t quite trust it. So you rewash the fork. Or you rinse the plate. It’s not a hygiene thing—it’s control. You need to know that what you’re eating off is truly clean, even if it already is. You don’t talk about it, but it’s definitely not just you.
You fake effort when someone walks in.
You’ve been standing there for ten minutes doing absolutely nothing. But the second someone walks in, you grab a spoon or stir something like you’ve been hard at work. It’s all about the illusion. Bonus points if you mumble something about “letting it simmer” to really sell the scene. Kitchen credibility restored.
You blame the stove when something burns.
You left it on too long, sure. But when the pan starts smoking, the oven becomes the enemy. “This burner runs hot.” “I need a new thermometer.” You won’t admit it was your distraction—or that you walked away to scroll for a minute too long. You’ll still eat it. You’ll just do it bitterly.
You eat things with your hands when no one’s watching.
You could get a fork. But no one’s around, and your hands work just fine. So you pinch a piece of chicken or scoop up some rice straight from the pot. It’s quick, primal, and oddly satisfying. But if anyone walked in, you’d drop it like a raccoon caught in the trash. What they don’t know won’t hurt them.