Even though there are two people under this roof, we are a one-computer
household, and I've recently discovered that relegates us to total freak status among our peers. Before Alex and I were married, each of us
struggled with hopelessly outdated computers (a fishbowl shaped iMac on
my side of the river, an ancient PC with foot pedals and a broken
floppy drive on hers). Fortunately for us, we tied the knot well before
the economy tanked, and so were able to unload a few fistfuls of
wedding lucre on the sort of things we decided married people ought to
own. The three-year-old Mac laptop I'm typing this on was among the
first of such purchases, and like any other shared expense, we
discussed all the possible angles at length before filling out one of those new checks emblazoned with both of our names.
While deciding what kind of computer to buy, we talked about the abstract concepts related to such devices, as well as more pressing matters like how we'd go about gathering enough MP3s to make my fellow WFMU DJs blush. As cool looking as the shiny black Macbook may have been, we couldn't reconcile paying the extra money for it. Ditto for the oversized flatscreen edition. Ultimately, I like to compare our Mac's eventual purchase to that of a costly but laboriously-researched toaster that did everything we wanted it to. Just as my affinity for bagels need not preclude my wife's love of whole wheat toast, my desire for an iTunes alternative could certainly share space with her fondness for the Fug Girls.
Never once did it occur to us that we should each get our own computers, which I later found out is what every other couple our age seems to do. On several occasions over the last few years, married people with whom we are friendly reported on how they'd just come back from the Apple Store with "a pair of new laptops". It sounded to me like they'd been out shopping for ferrets or something, and I suddenly worried that Alex and I were either woefully behind the technology curve, or had left out some critical vow in our nuptials. "Who the hell gets two computers?", I wondered. Was one pink and the other blue? The idea of friends and their partners sitting together on distant sofas took on a peculiar accent when I further imagined them clacking away independently, lost in their respective e-dentities in spite of the physical closeness. I eventually dismissed these ideas after thinking long and hard on the matter and decided that the only way an extra computer would come in handy around here would be to have one in our kitchen. And a year or two from now, when a complete hardware upgrade is finally in order, I hope that's where this one's going to end up.
When I was a child, I was transfixed by TV game show segments in which an invariably blonde woman would present an array of gleaming appliances by running her hand across their luxurious curves and elegant chrome moldings. I routinely begged for (and was repeatedly denied) one of those kid-sized kitchen sets with the fake refrigerator and stove top. A few years later, my attentions wandered to the Holly Hobby-like cupcake ovens that were advertised on afternoon television. Unfortunately, with expected gender roles and societal norms now lurking around every corner, the threat of a gang-style beating on the playground of my elementary school was palpable, so I wisely kept my mouth shut. I made a brief pest of myself by hanging around the kitchen with my mother whenever she was cooking, but that usually ended with my being sequestered to the garage, where I took up with sexy distractions like tools, matches, and gasoline. (The concurrent availability of cigarettes and the rise in popularity of bands like Iron Maiden made this an easy transition, and it is one that I keep waiting for someone like Anthony Bourdain to validate on TV.) What I didn't realize at the time is that I hadn't dismissed my kitchen envy so much as I'd stuffed it into a part of my brain that many don't use until after turning thirty. The kitchen is often identified as the most important room in any household, and in acknowledging this truism, I've suffered the related agonies of ours lacking the counter space, proper lighting, and appropriate cabinets that I now desire. I sometimes think back to those game show segments and imagine all the pukey 70s extravagance morphing into a more enviably modern reality.
Then I think about my own kitchen, which is when the mental olympics really get going.
Don't get me wrong -- As long as you keep in mind that we're city people who live in a building that's over 100 years old, our current kitchen is bloody magnificent in comparison to some of the others I've reckoned with as an adult who enjoys cooking. However, that's not to say it wouldn't be vastly improved with more counter space, better lighting, more appropriate cabinets, and by way of bringing the discussion full circle, a dedicated computer terminal.
Mixing kitchens and computers is not a new cocktail by any stretch of the imagination. They've enjoyed a shared mythology for as long as science fiction movies have been made, if not longer. The most commonly touted features of any kind of robotic culinary assistant are a reduction in prep work,
cooking time, or all around effort. If I didn't know better, I could almost imagine the phrase "with just the touch of a button" being first used in 1969 when the Honeywell Corporation introduced the H316 Pedestal Model Kitchen Computer (pictured above left). This vexing device looks like a cross between, well... two things that should never be crossed with one another except during times of great social and political unrest. Carrying a price tag of $10,000, the H316 was essentially a three ring recipe binder that weighed 100 pounds and which could only be programmed by an experienced technician. In spite of the futuristic looks (and built in cutting board!), this technological gateway to the kitchen of tomorrow was a commercial flop and according to Wikipedia, "there is no evidence that any Honeywell Kitchen Computers were ever sold."
In this case, what history tells us is that a particular device would not be the harbinger of a full-on culinary revolution. Blenders and microwaves are all well and good, but they're really just updated versions of the tools we've already been using for eons. A searchable network of content is what ultimately forces a giant leap forward, and access to it is what truly changed the way that I now address the dinnertime dilemma. (OK, unemployment also helped a lot.) It's a sentiment that I suspect rings true for many others who reached that critical point where they could no longer reconcile the despondent life of pastas, salads, and takeout that haunts so many zillions of my peers. No doubt, we're all better people for making the extra effort.
Clearly, cookbooks are an irreplaceable asset in our kitchen, and they will remain as such even if I someday get my wish for a digital culinary workstation with twenty godzillabytes of memory. But more and more often, I'm using blogs and websites to get cooking ideas, as well as for performing basic food research. ("What the hell is Chinese black vinegar? Does it matter what third world country my vanilla beans came from?") The cookbook shelf comes into play when I want an in-depth explanation of a particular culinary technique, though it's doubtless that I could head to the internet for that information as well. With the arrival of podcasting, streaming video, and user-generated content for every imaginable cooking conundrum, the PC's presence in the kitchen is no longer the gimmick that 20th century advertising executives first conjured. It's the logical next-step for an industry that tantalized housewives with spaceage gizmos bearing names like Whirl-o-Matic, and I am more than ready to embrace it. Offer it up with the counter space necessary for me to dismember an entire pig (I'm sure there's a tutorial on YouTube), and you may not hear from me until the promise of jetpacks and flying cars is finally realized. Until then, it'll be the blessed intersection where technology mingles with dirty dishes that fixes our attention on the days and meals to come.
Get inspired: Dow Jones & the Industrials perform "Ladies With Appliances". I challenge any and all to come up with a finer example of sautéed musical microchips. Originally from the Devo-damaged and wholly excellent Red Snerts compilation. [Buy it here]
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