The word “kitchen” comes from the word “to ripen,” also the root of apricot, pumpkin, charcuterie, biscuit, and ricotta. Each of these words makes my mouth water. In staring down into what will likely be my last kitchen, I have room to maneuver and room to talk to whoever is across the counter. But not so much room that I have to walk steps with a heavy pot or platter. Rather, my last kitchen allows me to pivot and spin. The “farm sink” is deep enough to hide dirty dishes. The sink came in a box the size of a small child. In fact, I could bathe a child in the sink, or wash the cat’s litter box or a thick sweater—or several of them. In that sink I could soak my largest roasting pan, stuff a turkey, wash a bushel of apples. Repot a peace lily or a miniature Meyer lemon tree. Defrost or fast-chill two gallons of Tuscan Bean soup. A big sink—originally I wanted two, this one and a smaller one nearer to the refrigerator but positioning the plumbing drain line was complicated and this kitchen is not, after all, that big.
Still: see the grey pottery bowl in the middle of the “continent”? I bought it more than ten years ago, and it dwarfed everything it sat on until now. And the Italian tiles above the sink? 35 years ago, I bought them framed from Baltimore’s Turnover shop, and now finally they are set into the backsplash. I love the induction range, but made a mistake with the wall oven (should have gotten a model with cafe doors). And the 41 cabinets? All full.