A Novel Kitchen Novels & Stories

The sun was barely up when Evelyn stepped into the kitchen. The marble floors felt like ice beneath her bare feet, but she didn’t mind the cold. It made her feel grounded, a stark contrast to the lightheadedness that had started to haunt her. She began to cook. The kitchen was usually the domain of their housekeeper, but today, Evelyn wanted it to be hers. She prepared classic eggs Benedict, smoked salmon, and fresh coffee—Arthur’s favorites. It was a domestic routine they hadn’t shared in years. Most mornings, Arthur was gone before she even woke up, leaving nothing behind but a lingering scent of cedarwood and a cold bed.

She did that each time she was nervous or tense and needed to calm down. She took a look around the kitchen and for the first time since she's entered here, she noticed that this was no ordinary kitchen. It was filled with every cooking gadget there would ever be. What even surprised Anna the most was the knives that hung against a wall rack. Every type and size was there and Anna frowned. What were they for? There was a large window at the west end of the kitchen and the fading rays of the sun filtered in through the pale yellow blinds covering the window. It cast beautiful vertical rays against the sill, the long wide island and the tiles floor of the kitchen and Anna got lost.

I steal a glance at the novel, but I bite my lips, leaving it there, going to the kitchen. My kitchen is a mess. I live in an a penthouse apartment at SoHo, the rich side. Zoe lives in Hell's Kitchen, while Cyp lives in L.A. I stare round my large kitchen, shamed at the mess, but delighted at the size. This was the first thing I bought when I got my first paycheck, well with my savings, it was a birthday present for myself, I've been living for two years and counting.

I interject before he makes even more excuses for his asshole of a brother. As we walked into the kitchen, I immediately fall in love! This was my dream kitchen; a colour scheme of charcoal and cream, a large island and breakfast nook in the middle, a double oven and hob, stovetop built into the island. Pots, pans and any kind of utensil and appliance you could ever need. “Okay, I am in love right now,” I say, as I walk around the kitchen and hear Dario chuckle. “I am guessing you like to cook?” he asks, and I nod excitedly when I open the fridge. Bacon, eggs, mushroom, cream, garlic, cheese, peppers, spices and herbs; the making of the perfect omelette.

At first glance, Dovie hated the colourful knitted garment, which made Minnow love the generous gift more. She left the room and snuck down the grand staircase, tiptoeing through a long corridor toward the kitchen. The kitchen was bright and warm with its robust scent of fresh coffee and newly baked bread rolls welcoming her in. The room was designed as a state-of-the-art farmhouse kitchen with two sizable ovens, multiple countertops, and every utility you could dream of lining the large work area. The room was empty, so Minnow took her time walking up and down the countertops filling a small basket with things she thought she could muster to eat.

As bad as Calistha was when it came to the kitchen, that woman shouldn't be causing the mess she used to. In the kitchen, Aiden was slightly amazed by the kitchen which now looked different. Every corner in the kitchen is now filled with small notepads that contain descriptions of each spice. Then there were some rather large pieces of paper on the kitchen wall that contained recipes. Aiden pulled the corner of his lips slightly to the right to smile. Even though it wasn't the kind of smile that was sincere, not even a big smile, but at least Aiden had smiled. It was rare, if not impossible, for a sniper like him to smile. His cold, fierce face was far more useful for bluffing his damn foes

I‌t was her beach⁠he⁠ad. Driv‍en by a restless energy, she decided⁠ to explore the on⁠e room she had⁠n't yet dared to enter: th‍e‍ kitchen. It was a chef's d‌ream, all gleam‍ing stainless‍ steel and marble, wit‌h‌ appliances so sle‌ek they l‍ooked like they’d never been to‍uch⁠ed. It was a‍ ki‍tchen for show, not for life.

She heard her boss announce as she reached the kitchen. "Yippie!" She ran over to the kitchen counter, wagging her invisible tail. "What are you? A puppy?" He chuckled. "Woof," She played along. He laughed. She then noticed the laptop at the table, "You read my novel?" She asked, her eyes sparkled, "How was it?" "Full of cliches and grammatical and spelling errors," He stated. "Oh come on, cliches are life, and it was my first draft, I have yet to edit it," She pouted.

I made my way toward the kitchen, my footsteps silent on the polished stone, feeling like a thief in my own life. The kitchen was a masterpiece of stainless steel and obsidian. It was a room designed for a chef who never came, for five-star meals that were never cooked, only plated. I opened the massive, sub-zero refrigerator, and the clinical white light blinded me for a second, cutting through the shadows like a spotlight. "Looking for a midnight snack, or planning a late-night escape through the service elevator?" I jumped, my heart leaping into my throat. The carton of organic almond milk slipped from my fingers, thudding onto the obsidian counter with a wet, heavy sound.