You probably know the tune. It’s one of those melodies that just sits in the back of your brain from childhood, right next to "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." But someone's in the kitchen with dinah isn't actually its own standalone song. It’s a middle verse. A bridge, basically. It’s tucked inside the massive, 19th-century folk staple "I've Been Working on the Railroad."
People hum it while making coffee. They teach it to toddlers. But honestly, most of us have no clue what it’s actually about or where it came from. Is Dinah a cook? Is she the boss? Why is someone strumming on the banjo while she's trying to work?
The history is a lot messier than the Barney-style versions we hear today.
Where Did Someone's in the Kitchen with Dinah Actually Come From?
If you look back at the first published version of "I've Been Working on the Railroad," which popped up in a book called Carmina Collegensia back in 1894, the "Dinah" section is already there. But the song itself feels older. It’s a Frankenstein’s monster of American folk music. You’ve got different pieces stitched together from different traditions.
The "Dinah" part specifically sounds like a classic shout or a work song fragment. Researchers like those at the Library of Congress have tracked these lyrics back to minstrel shows of the 1830s and 40s. It’s a uncomfortable reality. Many of our "innocent" nursery rhymes started in blackface performance.
Dinah wasn't just a random name. In the 1800s, "Dinah" was a generic, often derogatory term used in popular culture for an enslaved or domestic Black woman working in a kitchen. When you hear "someone’s in the kitchen with Dinah," the original 19th-century audience wasn't thinking of a cute family scene. They were seeing a caricature.
The Banjo Connection
Then there's the "strumming on the old banjo" part.
The banjo is an instrument with West African roots. By the time this song was a hit, the banjo was the symbol of the American South—both the real South and the fictional, romanticized version sold to audiences in the North. Fee-fi-fiddle-ee-i-o? That’s just nonsense syllables, likely meant to mimic the sound of the strings.
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It's weirdly catchy. You can't deny that. That’s how these songs survive for 150 years. They have these "earworm" qualities that bypass our critical thinking.
Why the Lyrics Change Depending on Who's Singing
Language is fluid. It moves.
In modern classrooms, teachers usually skip the darker history. They treat Dinah like she's just a friendly aunt or a professional chef. But if you look at older folk recordings—think the 1920s and 30s—the lyrics sometimes get a lot more suggestive. Some versions imply that the "someone" in the kitchen isn't there to help with the dishes.
Folksingers like Pete Seeger or John Lomax, who spent their lives collecting these tunes, noted how the verses shifted. One minute it's a song about the grueling labor of building the transcontinental railroad. The next, it’s a domestic scene.
Why the jump?
Because "I've Been Working on the Railroad" is a medley. It’s what happens when sailors, rail workers, and travelers sit around and smash different songs together to pass the time. The "Railroad" part is about the "all day long" grind. The "Dinah" part is about the world they left behind—or perhaps the world they were heading toward at the end of the line.
The Mystery of "Fee-Fi-Fiddle-ee-i-o"
Is it a secret code? Probably not.
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Most music historians, like those featured in the Smithsonian Folkways series, argue that these syllables are "vocables." They are sounds used to keep the rhythm when the singer forgets the words or when the beat is more important than the story.
Think about it. If you're hammering spikes into a rail, you don't need a complex narrative about 19th-century domesticity. You need a 4/4 beat.
- Working: I've been working on the railroad... (Swing the hammer)
- Resting: Someone's in the kitchen with Dinah... (The social break)
It’s the contrast that makes the song work. You have the heavy, plodding rhythm of the railroad work followed by the lighter, bouncy, "strumming" feel of the kitchen verse. It’s a musical relief valve.
Modern Reinterpretations and Controversies
Is it okay to sing it?
That's a big question in music education circles right now. Groups like the American Orff-Schulwerk Association have had long discussions about whether songs with minstrel origins belong in the modern elementary curriculum.
Some say you should change the names. Others say we should teach the history. Some just want to let the song die and find better ways to teach rhythm to kids.
Honestly, it’s a tough one. You can't really scrub the history out of American folk music because the history is the music. If you took out every song that touched on the complicated, often racist history of the 1800s, you’d lose about 80% of the American songbook.
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But you can't ignore it either. You can't just pretend "Dinah" is just some lady in a hat.
What You Probably Didn't Know
- The Tempo Shift: Most people sing the "Railroad" part slow and the "Dinah" part fast. This wasn't always the case; early versions were often played at a consistent, driving speed.
- The "Kitchen" Meta-Verse: In some Appalachian versions, the person in the kitchen is actually a "Captain" or a "Major," changing the power dynamic entirely.
- The 1950s Cleanup: The version we know—sanitized, bright, and bouncy—is largely a product of the 1950s children’s media boom. This is when the song became a staple for "The Mickey Mouse Club" and similar shows.
The Evolution of Domestic Imagery in Folk
Music is a mirror.
When someone's in the kitchen with dinah was first popular, the kitchen was the center of the home—but it was also a place of labor. For the people singing the song, the kitchen represented something they didn't have: stability.
If you're a "levee mopper" or a "railroad worker," you're nomadic. You're living in tents. You're moving across the country one mile at a time. The idea of a kitchen, a warm meal, and someone playing a banjo is a fantasy. It’s "home" in a bottle.
Even the nonsense sounds—that "Fee-fi-fiddle-ee-i-o"—sound like a celebration of that fantasy. It’s a bit of joy injected into a song that is otherwise about working until your back breaks.
Actionable Steps for Exploring Folk Music Today
If you’re interested in the real roots of these songs, don't just stick to the Spotify kids' playlists. Those are filtered. They're refined.
- Check the Library of Congress: Look up the "National Jukebox." You can hear actual recordings from the early 1900s. It sounds different. Scratchier. More "real."
- Read the Lyrics Closely: Next time you sing a nursery rhyme, look up the 1800s lyrics. You’ll be surprised how often they involve political satire or social commentary.
- Listen to the Instrument: Try to find recordings of the song played on a period-accurate banjo. The sound is "cluckier" and more rhythmic than the modern bluegrass style you’re probably used to.
- Support Ethnomusicology: If you’re a teacher or a parent, use these songs as a bridge to talk about American history—the good, the bad, and the rhythmically complex.
The song is a piece of living history. It’s a weird, catchy, slightly uncomfortable reminder of where we’ve been. We keep singing it because the melody is undeniable, but the words remind us that American culture is a messy, unfinished project.
Keep listening. Keep questioning. The songs we sing to our kids often have the loudest stories to tell.