Everything Old is New Again

It's true that everything around me is new. Or at least, different. New place, new job, new friends, new hangouts, new hobbies, new kitty. I'm even tinkering around with my haircut and the way I dress. Logically, I suppose I could feel a little discombobulated, but I'm a chameleon by nature, and really, this ain't shit. In fact, I'm feeling strangely static. Grounded. Still. It's a good feeling. Or, at least satisfied. Or, at least accepting. My core, my center is the same. My man, my home (city,) my cooking.

I've been spending a lot of time in the kitchen, which grounds me as much as anything, so I thought I'd give you a peek.

I love this kitchen because it's big. Roughly the size of an average bedroom. It's what sold me on the apartment. As you wander through the vestibule, the living room and the dining room, you finally end in the kitchen, and you sort of never leave. I spend most of my time here. The center island is priceless and I don't know how I'll ever do without one again. It's like the starship enterprise of the house. The floors are hideous (I mean like elephant man and carrot top had babies ugly) so I try to keep them covered with runners which I have to vaccum after every dinner. It's a battle and the floors are winning:

The kitchen is also a little (a lot) outdated. I'm thinking mid-to-late '80's is when it got remodeled. I had some reservations about this, but it's working out surprisingly well. I used to think I couldn't live with electric burners, but these get incredibly hot. In fact, that frittata on the stove? Burned. I kept thinking as I was cooking that it "kinda smells like burning." So, a little cooking 101: If something smells like burning ITS PROBABLY FUCKING BURNING. I was just so reluctant to believe it, because I'm not a burner. I'm so accustomed to controlling my heat. So, there. Even "professionals" like us fuck up. Keep plugging away. You want to eat, dontcha? Also, the indoor grill? Love.

You can also spy my beloved 'puter-- the island is where I "work," my speakers I plug her into to get my daily Pandora groove on, my sexy peppermill which happens one of my prized posessions, courtesy of my amazing auntie Deb, and my vintage Pabst cocktail tray, also courtesy of Deb (think of a shorter, much funnier Martha Stewart with a thick, high pitched midwestern accent who also swears a lot but who still believes in Jesus and you're about 1/10th of the way there). Odds and ends live in that tray: paper towels, a kosher salt pot, stray fortune cookies, a sharpie for labeling food, condoms, toenail clippings, vials of meth, you know, the usual. I haven't put up curtains yet, hence the glare. When I get up in the night for a glug of agua I have to creep in with my boobies and lady parts strategically covered because the neighbors are often out having late night cigs. I'm sure by now they know more about me than they might like. Ah, city livin':
Yet more of the outdated glory. I love having an oven at eye level, but she's little. Like, too small for a 12 pound turkey little, and definitely too small for a Hansel & Gretel moment. But, surprise again, it works like a champ. In this case, it's the little thing that good things come out of. It gets hot, hot, hot, like Gloria Estefan hot, and shit gets done in a jiffy. She's just fine for the two of us. Above the fridge you'll find a beloved pizza oven, compliments of, you guessed it, aunt Deb, and on top of that, my knife roll which has been on hiatus lately. My Global goes wherever I go, but the rest of the collection seems rather superfluous right now. Maybe it will come in handy when I get my invite to Iron Chef. Heh. The dish pit. Some of my most beloved treasures hang to the right inside of a sideturned vintage wooden soda bottle crate, and mabye I'll write a seperate post about it, but suffice to say every little tchotchke you see there has sentimental value and it makes the daily dishin' just a little more enjoyable. I actually don't mind doing dishes by hand and I tend to wash as I go when I'm cooking (it actually makes me nuts when people don't clean as they go). However, that don't make me above no dishwasher, which I negotiated with the landlord to have put in. I get what I want.

Left to right:

a: Ruby the mixer whom I almost never use but she'll be coming with me when I pack up my car with things I simply can't live without and run away.

b: The Krups, which ditto, can't live without-- this one was a gift from the in-laws and I start my each and every day with him. I think his name is Miles. Black, sexy, essential. The coffee tray has all the other basics: beans, grinder (I always grind from bean because I'm a junkie like that,) and two varieties of sugar.

c: That drawing of my grams and a basket full of dish towels and rags. I like rags, not sponges. Sponges are for smelly people. I'm anal about clean rags and dishtowels and switch them out almost daily. However, they're nothing fancy-- I pilfer plain white ones from my restaurant jobs and the others are usually gifts. I'll use them 'til they're in tatters.

d: A little cheese cutting board that's perfect for small jobs, a gift from my BIL who's also an avid cook. Love that guy.

e: A fancy new convection toaster oven that I'm still getting accustomed to. I miss my $10 toaster with the "pop tarts" setting.

f: The Microwave that Will Not Quit. B had this microwave when I met him (10+ years ago,) and he had it for I don't know how long before that. It still works as well as it did that first day I warmed my first frozen dinner in it. See? They don't make things the way they used to. Keep yer newfangled gadgets, kids! My stuff is OLD, and I like it!