Kitchenless

A cook without a kitchen is like, well, it's like a cook used to living on earth suddenly being catapulted into the atmosphere, landing on Mars, and trying to make a go of it. In other words, I'm feeling rather displaced.

Last night I ate leftovers off of a paper plate with plastic silverware. In my own home. I'm not averse to paper or plastic - I get takeout, I'm human - but I'm not used to eating on paper plates at home. I'd better hurry up and get used to it, because that's what I'm going to be doing for the next week until the kitchen, which is currently a massive demolition zone, gets its long-overdue makeover. 

No need to be alarmed. I'm not dropping $9,900 on a Hammacher Commercial Juicer, or $47,300 on a La Cornue Grand Palais stove  range ... at the end of the project I'll still be little ol' me in my WT Trailer, I'll just be able to walk across the floor without falling through it and be able to open a kitchen cabinet without the handle coming off in my hand.

It's the little things we take advantage of that we suddenly realize make up our whole world when we don't have them around to appreciate. I miss my pots and pans, stacked high and hidden under sheets on the dining room table to escape the sheet rock dust and spackling debris. I miss my knifes, safely sheltered in a drawer so they don't get knocked off their magnetized perch and slice through thighs and feet and toes. I miss the soft stone of the robin's egg blue plate I almost always have dinner on. And the fact that there is no way I can clean up the insanity that is my kitchen because the sink is in the front yard is driving me nutballs.

But I will be able to walk across the kitchen floor without falling through it. I'll be able to open a kitchen cabinet and find everything neatly in it's place, waiting to join me in yet another culinary journey.

And it will be well worth eating a few leftovers off of paper plates.