As soon as servants took over the function of cooking, in the palaces and manor houses of the rich, the kitchens naturally got separated from the dining halls. Then, in the middle class housing of the nineteenth century, where the use of servants became rather widespread, the pattern of the isolated kitchen also spread, and became an accepted part of any house. But when the servants disappeared, the kitchen was still left separate, because it was thought “genteel” and “nice” to eat in dining rooms away from any sight or smell of food. The isolated kitchen was still associated with those houses of the rich, where dining rooms like this were taken for granted.
But this separation, in a family, lias put the woman in a very difficult position. Indeed, it may not be too much to say that it
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has helped to generate those circumstances which have made the woman’s position in mid-twentieth century society unworkable and unacceptable. Very simply, the woman who accepted responsibility for making food agreed to isolate herself in the “kitchen”— and subtly then agreed to become a servant.
Modern American houses, with the so-called open plan, have gone some way toward resolving this conflict. They very often have a kitchen that is half-separated from the family room: not isolated, and not entirely in the family room. This does create a circumstance where the people who are cooking are in touch with the rest of the family, while they are working. And it does not have the obvious stigma and unpleasantness of separated sculleries and kitchens.
But it does not go far enough. If we look beneath the surface, there is in this kind of plan still the hidden supposition that cooking is a chore and that eating is a pleasure. So long as this mentality rules over the arrangement of the house, the conflict which existed in the isolated kitchen is still present. The difficulties which surround the situation will only disappear, finally, when all the members of the family are able to accept, fully, the fact that taking care of themselves by cooking is as much a part of life as taking care of themselves by eating. This will only happen when the communal hearth is once more gathered round the big kitchen table, as it is in primitive communities, where the taking care of necessary functions is an everyday part of life, and has not been lost to people’s consciousness through the misleading function of the servant.
We are convinced that the solution lies in the pattern of the old farmhouse kitchen. In the farmhouse kitchen, kitchen wmrk and family activity were completely integrated in one big room. The family activity centered around a big table in the middle: here they ate, talked, played cards, and did work of all kinds including some of the food preparation. The kitchen work was done communally both on the table, and on counters round the walls. And there might have been a comfortable old chair in the corner where someone could sleep through the activities.
Therefore:
Make the kitchen bigger than usual, big enough to in-
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139 FARMHOUSE KITCHEN
elude the “family room” space, and place it near the center of the commons, not so far back in the house as an ordinary kitchen. Make it large enough to hold a good big table and chairs, some soft and some hard, with counters and stove and sink around the edge of the room; and make it a bright and comfortable room.
Give the kitchen light on two sides (159). When you place the kitchen counters later, make them really long and generous and toward the south to get the light—cooking layout (184), sunny counter (199) ; leave room for an alcove or two around the kitchen—alcoves (179); make the table in the middle big, and hang a nice big warm single light right in the middle to draw the family around it—eating atmosphere (182); surround the walls, when you detail them, with plenty of open shelves for pots, and mugs, and bottles, and jars of jam—open shelves (200), waist-high shelf (201). Put in a comfortable chair somewhere—sequence of sitting spaces (142). And for the room shape and construction, start with the shape of indoor space (191). . . .
140 PRIVATE TERRACE ON THE STREET**
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. . . among the common areas and sitting spaces—common AREAS AT THE HEART (129), SEQUENCE OF SITTING SPACES (142) —there is a need for one, at least, which puts the people in the house in touch with the world of the street outside the house. This pattern helps to create the half-hidden garden (ill) and gives life to the street—green street (51) or pedestrian street (100).
The relationship of a house to a street is often confused: either the house opens entirely to the street and there is no privacy; or the house turns its back on the street, and communion with street life is lost.
We have within our natures tendencies toward both com-munality and individuality. A good house supports both kinds of experience: the intimacy of a private haven and our participation with a public world.
But most homes fail to support these complementary needs. Most often they emphasize one, to the exclusion of the other: we have, for instance, the fishbowl scheme, where living areas face the street with picture windows and the “retreat,” where living areas turn away from the street into private gardens.
The old front porch, in traditional American society, solved this problem perfectly. Where the street is quiet enough, and the house near enough to the street, we cannot imagine a much better solution. But if the street is different, a slightly different solution will be necessary.
Early in his career, Frank Wright experimented with one possible solution. When he built beside lively streets he built a wide terrace between the living room and the street.
To our knowledge, Grant Hildebrand first pointed out this pattern in Wright’s work, in his paper, “Privacy and Participation: Frank Lloyd Wright and the City Street,” School of
. . . this pattern helps maintain the independent recions (i) by making regions more self-sufficient agriculturally; and it will create city country fingers (3) almost automatically by preserving agricultural land in urban areas. But just exactly which land ought to be preserved, and which land built upon?
The land which is best for agriculture happens to be best for building too. But it is limited—and once destroyed, it cannot be regained for centuries.
In the last few years, suburban growth has been spreading over all land, agricultural or not. It eats up this limited resource and, worse still, destroys the possibility of farming close to cities once and for all. But we know, from the arguments of city country fingers (3), that it is important to have open farmland near the places where people live. Since the arable land which can be used for farming lies mainly in the valleys, it is essential that the valley floors within our urban regions be left untouched and kept for farming.
The most complete study of this problem that we know, comes from Ian McHarg (Design With Nature, New York: Natural History Press, 1969). In his “Plan for the Valleys” (Wallace-McHarg Associates, Philadelphia, 1963), he shows how town development can be diverted to the hillsides and plateaus, leaving the valleys clear. The pattern is supported, also, by the fact that there are several possible practical approaches to the task of implementation (McHarg, pp. 79—93).
Therefore:
Preserve all agricultural valleys as farmland and protect this land from any development which would destroy or lock up the unique fertility of the soil. Even when valleys
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