Crying over spilt milk: The lawless landscape of the shared kitchen

I never truly understood the phrase ‘no use crying over spilt milk’. And I can confidently say after three terms of sharing a kitchen with eleven other milk drinkers that there is almost always and objectively a use in crying over spilt milk. I would also like to add some alternative adjectives to this proverb, as I’ve discovered it is entirely possible to experience crying over ‘borrowed’ milk, chunky milk, lactose-free milk, red-top milk, or simply a lack of milk.

My most notable milk incident of this year was being an active participant in a semi-skimmed hostage situation. I bought two pints of the white stuff and observed it slowly deplete over a three-day period without me even having to open the lid. Simultaneous to this, there was an uptake in cereal boxes deposited in the recycling bin and tablespoons in the sink, so I hope the milk thief thoroughly enjoyed satiating their serial cereal munchies after nights out. I also know exactly who you are.

Some flatmates resorted to exaggerated black Sharpie on their beloved four-pinters

Moving into university halls, I had anticipated such pinching activities but over time, the novelty wears off and the public shaming is no longer humorous. Hence some flatmates resorted to exaggerated black Sharpie on their beloved four-pinters, which I must give points to for effort and pettiness. The shared kitchen is a phenomenon in which not only entire volumes of milk can disappear, but also the pricier bits of kit you forked out for before you arrived.

Helpfully, my father labelled all my cutlery with an engraving of my first and second name. Which has not only prevented the sticky-fingered magpies of IKEA’s finest but has ensured that at the scene of every kitchen crime I commit, my full name is there, in Calibri Light font size 12. Images attached. This has dampened certain kitchen activities for me, the kind that usually remain anonymous. Such as the politically defiant and radical act of leaving a stainless-steel teaspoon in the sink after making a cup of tea. This domestic micro-rebellion represents how flatmates-in-arms will subtly defy the communal kitchen rules to reclaim a sense of individuality over their personal property – a specific self-hood that can often be lost when you all own the same version of Tesco’s own-brand plates and bowls.

The A3 bin rota kindly gifted to our flat by RCT upon our arrival was immediately recognised as a legally binding document

When it comes to bin rotas, I have bin there, dumped that, and spilt a whole lot of bin juice on my favourite t-shirt. The A3 bin rota kindly gifted to our flat by RCT upon our arrival was immediately recognised as a legally binding document to which all members agreed to. The clause that I mysteriously missed, however, was the bit where everyone becomes severely amnesiac upon returning for Term 3. Consequently, too many times have I witnessed mould that is one day away from gaining self-awareness. This magna carta of chore charts continues to reign terror over our flat and is a bone of contention for most of us. Unfortunately, I am as stubborn as the rest of them and will not succumb to other’s idleness. I just hope that when the fungus begins to function cognitively, it will spare me.

The shared kitchen is also a place where creativity and laziness meet, and the engineers of tomorrow are born. I have most recently witnessed a dear flatmate of mine encounter the time-old dilemma of refusing to create more dirty dishes. So, after cooking a frozen pizza, they fashioned a rustic yet recyclable plate out of the very box it came in – a serving suggestion that wouldn’t look out of place in a homespun, family-run pizzeria in Leamington Spa. This is the sort of the ingenuity that goes unnoticed and is a real credit to our top ten institution.

I advocate for sharing a kitchen between 12 (initial) strangers successfully to be a recognised, professional skill that can be used on curricula vitae to boost one’s career opportunities

Despite its trials and harsh opportunities for personal development, the experience of a shared kitchen is one that cannot be forgotten for a plethora of positive reasons too. Its members are an instant gateway into gaining valuable friendships and bonding over the aforementioned spilt milk. I advocate for sharing a kitchen between 12 (initial) strangers successfully to be a recognised, professional skill that can be used on curricula vitae to boost one’s career opportunities. All employers should treat ‘Cross-Contamination Conflict Resolution’ as a skill as transferable as the diseases created in the food waste bin. Sharing a kitchen certainly requires discreet diplomatic flair, some level of obstinacy and the ability to maintain total psychological detachment from the sentient matter encrusted on the worktop as you make pesto pasta for the third time in as many days. Here’s to doing it all over again in second year. I’m buying my Sharpie now.