I could use some sympathy here people. It seems my Kitchen Goddess has left the building. Actually, I’m pretty sure I forgot to pack her when I moved to my current home in 2004, but I am particularly missing her today. I’ve blogged before about my personal fantasy of living at IKEA (Heaven on Earth) as well as how a normal morning in my kitchen often includes a higher than average danger rating due to precarious balancing acts on counters and refrigerator shelves (Known as Prime Real Estate). I realize this whine of mine is not particularly new to you. Or me, for that matter. But it is what is on my heart at this moment.
Mainly because in the process of attempting to get to the bread bag hidden beneath the rubble this morning, I nearly impaled my slippered foot with a chef’s knife. Or maybe because last night when I was attempting to take my medications (I’m medicated?!? No real surprise there.) I dropped a large container of Metamucil onto the counter which then catapulted a spoon on a trajectory which would have ended with my eyebrow if my reflexes weren’t so blazingly fast. (Which just may be an unexpected benefit to fiber therapy, I’m not sure.) Of course, I was so busy saving my cranium from flying spoons that I wasn’t able to save the novel and 2 inch stack of cherished heirloom-quality spelling tests from the orange juice that flooded both the counter and the floor, with only a wee pit-stop in the junk drawer.
What? You think I’m exaggerating? That this is but a moment of hyperbole on my part? Well, I’ll show you, because I have proof.
Isn’t it lovely? Those custom cabinets built to mimic the other built-ins throughout the house and then painted to match? Yeah, they seemed like a good idea until the coffee maker spewed boiling coffee all over the place on more than one occasion.
And the granite counters? Actually, they hide stuff really well. Too well sometimes, like when I set the W2s in a puddle of Hershey’s Chocolate syrup and then saved them, only to set them in some spilled blackberry jelly. But they are tasteful, literally.
Oh, and that Marmoleum flooring? The pattern was so lovingly argued over by my husband and I and which shows ever single bit of dirt, mud, and cat fur ever even considered being left upon it? It was an inspired choice, really.
This is my kitchen – the place where we eat most meals, correct most spelling assignments and make all things focaccia-y. And it rarely looks like this. Yep, hardly ever. (Can you hang on a bit while I go retrieve the pots and pans from the oven where I stashed them to take the picture? Because if I were to forget them in there for a couple of days and then turn the oven on, it would be a terrible disaster. Not that you hear the voice of experience here or anything.)
We could seriously use it to play some terribly wrong version of the I-Spy game. Like, how many bottles of adult beverages can you find? Or is that a stuffed bunny on the counter there? (The answer is 2 bottles of wine (one red, one white) and a bottle of rum, and of course there’s a bunny on the counter, don’t all kitchen counters have one?)
Now do you have an idea how foot impalement or eyebrow whacking can happen so frequently at my home?
Maybe I need to start thinking of this subject in a new light. Put a positive spin on things. Because my kids are remarkably adept at avoiding falling objects.
Yeah, that’s the ticket. My inability to keep all the spinning plates going in my life is just my way of ensuring my children will be more likely to survive any natural disaster that might happen upon them. After all, they’ve survived the kitchen all these years.
The really hysterical thing here (besides me, of course) is that I once had a tidy little house. Emphasis on little. Back when my husband and I had our first dinky little apartment, it was typically clean. The more square footage we’ve added to our lives, the more chaos. Of course, the more kids, the more house, so perhaps the correlation isn’t between chaos and size of mortgage payment but on chaos and number of chaos makers.
Well, I refuse to lose hope. Instead, I’m going to dig through those last few boxes we never opened from when we moved and see if my Kitchen Goddess is packed away in one. Because if she’s been resting all these years, she would probably be really excited about getting busy down in the kitchen, washing up those pots and pans.