A Humorous Look at New York’s Least Inspiring Kitchens
Some people in New York City see kitchens as places of creativity and culinary delight. Others, like cartoonists Roz Chast and Jason Adam Katzenstein, view theirs with dread and humor. Their new book, The Two Saddest Kitchens, humorously explores this topic using a ‘comics conversation’ format.
Inspiration from Childhood Memories
The author of the article reflects on their own childhood experience. Their mother, despite her dislike for cooking, managed to prepare daily meals. On free afternoons, they ventured into the city instead of cooking. These trips often involved simple meals like grilled cheese sandwiches.
This upbringing led to a belief that food serves as mere sustenance for life’s other activities. Chast and Katzenstein seem to share this perspective, presenting kitchens not as epicurean havens, but sources of quirky discomfort.
Comedic takes on mundane kitchens
Chast and Katzenstein reveal the absurdity in everyday kitchen details. In one cartoon, a take-out sauce container imagines its imminent rescue, highlighting the neglected state of fridge contents. Their comics delve into what they dub the ‘uncanny mundane,’ with humorists who turn a critical eye to everyday objects.
The book’s description of bizarre kitchen elements includes a cabinet loaded with long-unused items, something even chef Ruth Reichl found hilariously accurate.
Connections to Personal Stories
The narrative softens with personal anecdotes, referencing Chast’s acclaimed graphic memoir. Her parents reappear, and memories of being fed dubious ‘brain food’ foster a lasting food aversion.
Both cartoonists also discuss their mixed feelings about outdoor culinary experiences in New York. They refer to it as the home of unparalleled take-out options, nurturing a dependency separating them from cooking rituals.
Yet, if take-out supports their creation of original and engaging reads, the call to order remains strong. Even for those who love to cook, this book provides a comedic break enriching, rather than diminishing, the joy of cuisine.