A few months ago I posted an entry about my big move to San Francisco and now I’m all settled into our cozy city apartment. Moe’s bachelor pad has been all girled up with curtains and decorative pillows and other pretty little things. It’s been… transformed.
And what about apartment cooking, you ask? It’s not that bad. Our building dates to the mid-1930s, and while the kitchen is small and mostly original, it’s pretty functional. I find that I make less of a mess because there really isn’t much counter space to make a mess of in the first place. And I do dishes as I go since there’s no dishwasher, which means the post-meal cleanup is less of a chore. (On that note, you’ll have to pardon the mountain of dishes drying in the rack pictured above; we’d just had brunch. But the light coming in from the window was so pretty, I just had to snap a shot. And I didn’t want to tidy it all up before I photographed it and so you would think that my kitchen always happens to look picture-perfect… because it doesn’t.)
Last weekend we stayed at a friend’s swanky Tahoe home and I found myself feeling somewhat lost and overwhelmed in the spacious modern kitchen, what with its endless planes of cool, slick granite and shiny stainless appliances. I found I really missed my little kitchen, so full of character and history. I love the old wooden window over the faucet and the single-basin ceramic sink, and the glass-paned door that leads to our patio herb garden. It’s a kitchen that has interesting stories to tell, no doubt. I’ve often wondered who else has cooked here and what they were like. Who was this apartment’s first tenant, back in 1936, and was she wowed by the modernity of the place? Who lived here when the milkman still delivered milk through the milk door, and when the ice box actually had ice in it? (It has now been converted to a cabinet.)
Who else has stood at that sink, their hands in warm soapy water, and paused for a moment to feel the cool, damp air blow in from the Bay?
If only a kitchen could talk.