This morning, as Dave innocently tried to pour himself a cup of coffee while I cooked breakfast, he made the mistake of getting into my floor space. And as I gave him The Glare, he said, "I know, I know!" and retreated to the living room. He used to take kitchen banishment personally, until (with a little help from Mama), I convinced him that I have been "like that" since I was a small child. Would I wash the supper dishes for my mother? Happily. Willingly. As long as nobody came anywhere near the sink while I did it. But you try tossing so much as a spoon into my dishwater, and you could bank on The Glare. You might think a glare wouldn't be too scary, coming from a six-year-old, but mine must've had a certain deranged quality because I was usually successful in running the adults out of the kitchen.
Fast forward to my magazine career. Every year, I'd participate in a big planning meeting with the foods staff at Southern Living. Occasionally, one of the editors would pitch a story idea along the lines of "relax and enjoy your guests by making food prep part of the fun and letting them participate." At which point, I would forget that those editors knew enough about entertaining to fill the Britannica, while I knew virtually nothing, and I would cry out, "Are you CRAZY? Let GUESTS into my KITCHEN while I'm COOKING?" Patient and forgiving souls, those foodies. I imagine they already knew what it took me a while to figure out. I want to be alone in the kitchen because I'm not all that confident there. The first time we hosted the family Thanksgiving, I didn't want Mama 'n 'Em to know how nervous I was, getting that turkey into the oven. Likewise, I never want the church choir to see me burn the first batch of whatever and scramble to make a second. I don't want Miss Billie Darby to see my detailed notes on doubling her mac and cheese recipe (because when I try to do it in my head, I invariably forget to double something). And so I opt for culinary solitude. I guess you could say that I think of my kitchen as a theater. If you saw what happens backstage . . . you might not believe the show.