Esther McCarthy: The first, last and only rules of Kitchen Club — don’t talk about it!

Esther McCarthy: is getting the kitchen done up, y'know!

Getting a new kitchen in your 40s is a bit like joining Fight Club. First rule of Kitchen Club? You don’t talk about Kitchen Club. Second rule? YOU DO NOT TALK ABOUT KITCHEN CLUB.

Even if you’ve just spent two hours swooning over backsplash tiles on Pinterest.

Like Fight Club, Kitchen Club has its own code of conduct, only here, it’s not about identity. It’s because no one wants to hear you yammering on about it.

If you’re like me, in the throes of revamp mania, be aware, it is not of interest to your friends and family.

I can hear myself. I’m aware that entire conversations around the difference between black and charcoal cabinets are stultifyingly boring, but it’s really the only excitement I’m getting these days. 

Matt or gloss? Ooh, do I opt for the glam of the gloss or accept I’m not the type of person who will wipe it down every time someone puts their grubby paws on it? Thrilling stuff.

But, it’s a big part of my life, guys. I don’t want this to be my personality, but here we are, until the thing actually gets installed, which could be a while.

This has been going for — and though I’ll be the first to admit I’m prone to a bit of hyperbole, this is not an exaggeration — about three years now. Just when I think I’ve met my dream match, figured out the ideal design, something falls through.

Never mind dating apps, being ghosted by carpenters hits hard. As for trying to get a plumber — ha! Good luck. We were so close with one gorgeous designer; husband and I nearly felt we were in an open marriage, we were both utterly smitten.

Then she upped and left the company, taking our dream kitchen with her — locked inside a GDPR-protected inbox. Thanks a lot, data privacy. Pfft.

So, after many failed relationships (it’s not me, it’s THEM), my husband and I have come to an agreement that we’ll buy the kitchen and appliances from a wholesaler, and he’ll install it.

Because as much as husband may like to, that poor bastard can’t ignore my calls. They’re coming from the other room, after all. I can SEE him pressing the down volume button. There is no escape, pal. In sickness and in health, in redesign and redecoration.

He’s handy like, it’ll be grand. The latest kitchen lady who’s doing up the dimensions is cautious. There’s a corner pantry that I’m having inappropriate thoughts about because it’s so fecking sexy. But she reckons it will be tricky to fit.

“Are you sure you can do it?” she asks us. “Oh ye of little faith,” I reply before husband can answer. “He can do it ALL.”

Our kitchen is a weird shape. The current kitchen was second-hand going in, and he built that like a complicated Lego set, not a bother to him. I don’t remember being part of the decision-making process there.

I’m not saying I wasn’t consulted but when we started the kitchen extension, I was a bit pregnant, and I didn’t care about colours or materials or tiles then. I had a life. And a life growing inside of me. I was otherwise distracted.

Fast forward 16 years, and the fridge is making noises like it’s possessed by the ghost of a cranky bullfrog, the dishwasher is held closed by a DIY bolt and there’s more than one drawer missing. (Where do they go? I don’t know.) 

We tried painting the tiles on the floor in an attempt to cover their advancing age, but now that’s peeling off, so no matter how many times I mop (once every full moon is the norm, right?) it looks like it’s got a strange skin disease.

I’m also slightly ashamed to admit this but I’ve been experiencing a nasty case of kitchen envy.

These spoofers online with their pristine kitchens with matching compost caddies, Smeg kettles and moody downlighting.

Where are the five-day-old toast crumbs? The exploding drawer of old takeaway containers? The Christmas mug that manages to stay in rotation all year around? Show me that kitchen, algorithm, you coward.

Ahh, but I remember coming home from the hospital with my swaddled newborn, a perfect, precious thing, and looking at a gaping hole where the kitchen should have been. Pipes snaked from the ceiling, there was no running water, dust and debris everywhere. And I cared not a jot.

Now the firstborn is 16, and so is the kitchen — one of them has aged much better than the other. So now I’m accepting I’m in the time of my life where I can happily debate the pros and cons of peninsulas over islands, but I also accept it’s not dinner party material.

I know no one else in my real life cares that I’m getting giddy over soft-close cabinets. But here we are. You’ve read this far, dear reader, you’re now an official member of Kitchen Club.

First rule? You tell no one, but send me on your Pinterest ideas, will ya?

I’m still not sure about the waist-high oven.