Always the Writer, Never the Client

Our writer finds herself caught between the beautiful kitchens she reports on and the practical one she lives in. Is it possible to separate the two and put her lust for amazing design aside?

It happened again the other day. A PDF full of gorgeous gallery of a kitchen landed in my inbox -- another assignment to write about a high-end kitchen remodel for a glossy home and garden magazine. "Let's really focus on what makes this kitchen stand out," my editor said. Stand out? That's either an extremely tough task or a total no-brainer, depending on how you look at it. On one hand, it's tough because these high-end kitchens all start to look the same after a while: a sort of private-school uniform comprised of granite countertops, industrial-grade stainless steel appliances, impeccable custom cabinets and ginormous islands. On the other hand, anything stands out when compared to my own humble kitchen -- last updated circa 1983. If high-end kitchens are the prep school scholars, my kitchen is the scruffy kid from the wrong side of the tracks who is forced to wear stained hand-me-downs.

When you flip through your favorite home and garden magazines, do you ever wonder who writes these pieces about dream kitchen remodels and what their kitchens look like? Why, it's me -- the girl with the killer database of design contacts and little financial resources to make much use of them. I'm probably pretty much like you: I drool over these pictures, study the captions to see what ideas I can glean and then commence dreaming. The only difference is that other people's design successes (and healthy-size budgets) are in front of my face, on my computer and in my head on a near-daily basis.

Don't get me wrong, as jobs go, this is pretty plum. I'm fairly well-paid to nose around people's homes. I constantly get the chance to interview incredibly creative people -- and in the process, get loads of great design tips to file away. But my idea file is getting pretty full, and aside from updating the light fixture, swapping out the cabinet hardware, painting the walls, and making some darn cute curtains, I've yet to implement any of those ideas into my own kitchen, seen here.


My husband and I have lived in our modest 1949 Cape Cod for four years. It's our first house, and we really do love it -- its small size suits our lifestyle and parts of it are oozing with vintage charm (some is original, some we've re-created). But, not the kitchen. An eat-in kitchen (sans dining room) with a small footprint, the space is arranged all wrong. The appliances are run-of-the-mill boring, the countertops are unattractive laminate (now stained in places), the cabinets are cheap plywood and the storage solutions are so 1980's.

I've got big plans, of course. There are always plans. After all, says my contact at the Research Institute for Cooking & Kitchen Intelligence (RICKI) the kitchen and bath industry is estimated to be around a $70 billion business. When Remodeling magazine did a Cost vs. Value Report for 2009 – 2010, they found that the average cost for a major kitchen remodel was $57,215; the average cost for even a minor one was $21,411. Clearly, a whole lot of people are dropping chunks of change to make their kitchens better, but here's the thing: How many of those kitchens were actually lacking true functionality (as in the ability to cook food and then eat it) before a renovation? Probably very few.

The reality is that my kitchen may not be very pretty from a design point of view, but it works. My husband -- the cook in the family -- makes dinner in it every night. We feed our 20-month-old at our outdated Value City Furniture kitchen table every day. The refrigerator keeps our food cold, the cabinets store our dishes, the ugly wire baskets in the pantry provide a place to keep cereal and pasta, and the oven bakes our cupcakes, roasted vegetables, and pizzas just fine. There could be more function, a better use of space, and certainly more energy efficiency, but our basic needs are met. We're not missing meals. So how can I justify $20K to $50K, just to have a room that's . . . prettier?

But then I think, how can I not? I love good design. A good-looking room with a smart sense of style makes me feel giddy and organized and inspired all at once. I feel scattered, old-fashioned and unstylish in my own hand-me-down kitchen. I feel -- dare I say? -- like a phony. I convince myself that I absolutely 100 percent need a retro-looking fridge and stove from Elmira Stove Works. The thoughts multiply from there and I start to think that I can't possibly live another day without a mod recycled glass backsplash, charming cabinets, and the deepest, most beautiful-looking farm sink out there. Added to that is a deep longing for a chic vintage farm table (plucked for almost nothing at some fabulous, out-of-the-way flea market), paired with amazingly modern chairs from Design Within Reach. I need sleek lines, retro charisma, and eye-catching finishes more than anything in the world. Right?

Wrong. The problem is that all this hobnobbing with good design and big budgets has caused me to level jump and I am now officially identifying with the wrong demographic. A recent RICKI study, Top of the Line: Insights into Upscale Consumers & Their Kitchens helped me figure this out. This study looks at groups of high-end versus moderate consumers, and their attitudes about their kitchens. People who make over $200K per year may buy the same bananas as those of us who make under $100K, but they approach their kitchens differently. "In addition to being more brand-aware, these consumers tend to associate their kitchens with their image of themselves and what they want to project to others," the report says. However, people with more moderate incomes (like me) are more driven by practicality, and less likely to agree with the statement: "I want my kitchen to say a lot about me." Are you joking? Of course I want a kitchen that says a lot about me. I want it to say that I'm hip and tuned into good design. I want a kitchen that makes me look effortlessly chic, as though I don't try too hard. I'm trying to cross over the tracks and hang with the prep-school kids -- hurling myself into a world of granite and stainless steel. The catch is that I'm on a particle-board budget.

My toddler likes to screech when he eyeballs something he desperately wants, (but most assuredly doesn't need): "Want! Want! Want!" To which I say, "Yes, sweetie, you want, want, want! But let's look at these fun toys you already have right here." He sighs, yes, but somehow finds a way to be content with his shape-sorter for another day.

And so this is me, looking at the kitchen I have right here -- where I just finished lunch and will later share a delicious dinner with my little family -- trying to file those wants away for another day.