Friday, October 24, 2003
From the fire into the frying pan
For ten long months, my kitchen was in remodel hell. Don’t ask but I have a few words of cautious wisdom: Home Depot sucks and never hire the lowest bidder. Shit happened more often than not. During most of that time I had access to a borrowed microwave which sat in the middle of my dining room taking up more space than my television; a refrigerator that froze items in the refrigerator portion but didn’t in the freezer portion; and a sink with a broken garbage disposal. Since I like to cook and feel it’s a necessity because I cannot afford to eat out all the time – my sanity was perpetually on the verge of deconstructing. Life wasn’t worth living except for my trusted crock pot that plugged in the office.
Now I’m back in action and cooking up a storm. The cookbooks came back from storage and into the new built-in bookcases. I peruse them constantly like treasures waiting to be found. During the time of my kitchen debacle, my mother also died so recipes reminiscent of childhood comfort foods are finding their way to my table.
My kitchen used to be smaller than some master bedroom closets or powder rooms. It had three doors – one to the hall, one to the patio, and one to the dining room. That was one door too many. The hall door converted into a pantry where I can hide large bags of dog food and stock up on canned goods. By no means is my kitchen spacious but at least now it’s functional and very colorful with sparkling white cabinets dazzled by stainless steel hardware, vivid red countertops, and celery green walls. It somehow reminds me of being in the womb of a crisp apple. Yes, I know apples don’t have wombs but my kitchen allows me the emotional nourishment that I so crave.
For ten long months, my kitchen was in remodel hell. Don’t ask but I have a few words of cautious wisdom: Home Depot sucks and never hire the lowest bidder. Shit happened more often than not. During most of that time I had access to a borrowed microwave which sat in the middle of my dining room taking up more space than my television; a refrigerator that froze items in the refrigerator portion but didn’t in the freezer portion; and a sink with a broken garbage disposal. Since I like to cook and feel it’s a necessity because I cannot afford to eat out all the time – my sanity was perpetually on the verge of deconstructing. Life wasn’t worth living except for my trusted crock pot that plugged in the office.
Now I’m back in action and cooking up a storm. The cookbooks came back from storage and into the new built-in bookcases. I peruse them constantly like treasures waiting to be found. During the time of my kitchen debacle, my mother also died so recipes reminiscent of childhood comfort foods are finding their way to my table.
My kitchen used to be smaller than some master bedroom closets or powder rooms. It had three doors – one to the hall, one to the patio, and one to the dining room. That was one door too many. The hall door converted into a pantry where I can hide large bags of dog food and stock up on canned goods. By no means is my kitchen spacious but at least now it’s functional and very colorful with sparkling white cabinets dazzled by stainless steel hardware, vivid red countertops, and celery green walls. It somehow reminds me of being in the womb of a crisp apple. Yes, I know apples don’t have wombs but my kitchen allows me the emotional nourishment that I so crave.
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