This is every Sunday in our kitchen.
Many things boiling, stirring, pouring, baking. There’s meat for chopping, cookies cooling, an Ipad with its multiple recipe screens for scrolling. There’s no room for any of our equipment so we purchase more bookshelves so that every space of wall in our tiny three room apartment is boarded with already-packed shelves (panicking, panicking, but where will more books go?)
The refrigerator is too small to fit the groceries, never mind the weekly baby photos friends send and expect to see proudly displayed when they visit.
And with no dishwasher and a sink that is full after just one sauce-stained pot, there is a constant stream of clean up.
I don’t know if it’s clear that there’s one foot of space between Tyler and the window, where we look out at the neighbor’s tabby cat and pretend it’s ours. But that one foot is the space where I get through, from the fridge to cutting board to the cupboard to the table to the sink to the garbage and back again and I don’t know how many times I’ve smacked my butt into the dripping cupboard beneath the sink or stubbed my hip into a drawer but let’s just say a lot.
We think of future homes. Although we already feel very blessed in this life, we wonder if we will ever spill out into wider, longer, deeper blueprints. Tyler dreams of a backyard pizza oven. (!) I have this wild idea that we will have a long counter with nothing on it. Nothing. Just a wide open space of culinary possibility.