The Kitchen Island Treaty

I’ve been married long enough to know there are mysteries in this world a man is never going to solve. The Bermuda Triangle, why socks disappear in the dryer, and why, despite every effort, my wife’s mission in life is to keep the kitchen island clear of stuff—so she can stack her own things on it.

Now, I grew up with a table in the middle of the kitchen. It was for eating, doing homework, playing cards, and shelling beans when the crop came in.

But somewhere along the way, home designers invented the “kitchen island,” which is a table that pretends it’s fancier because it doesn’t come with chairs or legs. It just sits there, proud as a mule in a parade, saying, “Look at me—I’m important!”

And boy, does it attract clutter. At least my clutter.

I’ll come home and set down my keys, wallet, pocketknife, the mail, maybe my glasses, and valise. You know—life’s essentials.

Within an hour, they’ve become suspects in a police lineup, and my wife is there as judge and jury.

“Does this belong here?” she’ll ask, lifting my hat with two fingers like it might be contagious.

“Well,” I’ll say, “I thought so when I put it there.”

“Wrong answer,” she declares, and my things vanish faster than donuts at a church social.

I don’t know where she takes them, but I spend half my life wandering the house like an archaeologist trying to rediscover my own possessions. The irony is—and this is where the mystery comes in—while my things are forbidden to land on the sacred island, hers are honored guests.

Two canvas bags from the grocery store, loaded not with edible, but books, aprons, hats, water bottles, and other odds and ends for her work. My favorite is the cellphone and iPad, thwarting my attempt to make the perfect Dagwood sandwich.

Then there’s the basket. It’s Mary’s camouflage trick, as anything can go in the basket: coupons, receipts, notes, the dog’s vaccination records, my keys, wallet, knife, and cellphone. It’s a nesting ground for paper, and when I suggest maybe moving it somewhere else, she looks at me like I just questioned the value of indoor plumbing.

“Where else would it go?” she asks.

I don’t answer because I’m not stupid.

See, a husband learns over time that marriage isn’t about winning battles—it’s about picking which ones are worth fighting.

And the kitchen island? That’s a losing war.

You can’t win. Best case, you get a truce.

So I’ve adapted. I keep a decoy pile—something harmless like a magazine or an empty envelope.

That way, she can swoop in, clear it off, and feel victorious, while I sneak my real stuff over to the dinner table, which has become my unofficial island annex. It’s not ideal, but at least I know where my keys are.

Sometimes I tease her about it. I’ll say, “Honey, why don’t we just rename it the Museum of Stuff You’re Allowed to Keep?” She doesn’t laugh as much as I do.

But here’s the truth: I love that she cares. She wants the house to look nice, and the island is her staging ground for order.

Without her, this place would be a stockyard. And though I grumble when I can’t find my reading glasses, I know she’s only trying to keep chaos at bay.

Besides, marriage works best when you accept that quirks come with the package. We’ve got a rhythm—like a dance. Sometimes Mary leads, sometimes I step on her toes, but we keep moving together.

So yes, the island may never truly be mine. But that’s okay.

I get the garage, she gets the kitchen, and we both get to laugh about it. Which, when you think about it, is the best treaty two people can make.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find my wallet. Last time I saw it, it was on the island—right before the cleanup crew arrived.