I am in my element in the kitchen. The rhythmic, soothing chopping sound of a sharp knife slicing through an onion, the exceptional, inimitable smell of garlic and olive oil melding together on the stove top, the feel of pasta’s warm steam hitting my face when drained in a colander — these sensations are familiar and comforting to any seasoned cook. In fact, these seemingly insignificant sensations are what make the cooking experience.

It is more than these smells and tastes and sounds, though. I like seeing the enjoyment on others’ faces when they savor the last bite of my dinner or receiving praise from astonished, impressed acquaintances when I bring a complicated dessert to a party. I want to discover recipes which make my fiancé happy, and I always attempt to achieve the perfect, creamy center and just-set edges when I prepare my father’s favorite birthday dessert, crème brulee. I genuinely enjoy wearing high heels in the kitchen, running around in the last few minutes before I set the food on the table and hearing them tap on the floor, confident and triumphant that I can manage any obstacle the kitchen — or the world — throws my way. I actually even own a toile-printed apron, but I draw the line there. I refuse to wear it as I cook, afraid that the picturesque 1950s resurrected image of June Cleaver I have created may become too eerily complete if I don pearls and the ribbon-embellished apron.

How do I reconcile my ultra-conventional posture toward the kitchen with my staunchly feminist sympathies? I could begin to launch into feminist rhetoric about how I have chosen to occupy the role of traditional domestic woman or how I develop my greatest feminine assets when I work in the kitchen. Perhaps these claims hold some truth, but I think the matter is far more complex and messy.

To some extent, I live my life inconsistently, nonsensically, chaotically. Yes, I am somewhat of an oxymoron: I hate that many people expect women to assume the majority of domestic duties when they are married or have children, yet I myself want to perform most of these tasks. I enjoy the control, the ability to do things the way I determine appropriate.

Many women feel they must emphasize they are not the traditional, idealized 1950s housewife. We see television personalities attempting to justify that they do not fit molds or stereotypes. Rachael Ray vehemently insists that although she can cook, she cannot bake or craft. Giada De Laurentiis refuses to conform herself to the dowdy, neat, prim and proper housewife; instead of wearing modest, fussy, conservative clothes, she dresses herself in low-cut, clingy feminine blouses, determined to show off her assets and defy expectations of what it means to be domestic. Ray’s and De Laurentiis’ subtle — and not-so-subtle, in the case of De Laurentiis’ wardrobe — assertions indicate that their stories and motivations are far more complicated than meets the eye. Just because they occupy a conventionally female realm does not imply that their personalities fit into every stereotype associated with a housewife, as they exemplify much more than their abilities in the kitchen.

And so do I. Just because I prefer to cook for my fiancé or plan a dinner menu for the upcoming week does not mean my identity ends there. I am not June Cleaver nor will I ever be. Whenever I cook, I do not set the table. I do not prepare stereotypical meat-and-potatoes meals. I rarely bake while at school; my fiancé bakes for me far more frequently. These are the miniscule indicators that my relationship to the kitchen — and to the 1950s housewife ideal — always will be open to change. And for me, that is the key: My role freely evolves so that I never become stuck, complacent or discontent. I remain somewhat uneasy and on edge in a good way, forever evaluating the situation. Maybe one day, I will even dare to wear the apron.

Emily’s column runs biweeky Wednesdays. She can be reached at e.rowell@cavalierdaily.com