I don’t cook. I mean, I do cook – but strictly for survival purposes. Some people regale tales of julienning vegetables and sautéing diced delights as stress relieving and amusing. I don’t buy it. If food wasn’t a biological necessity, you wouldn’t find me in a kitchen. Even my dainty apron with elegant eggplant pinstripes doesn’t draw me to a chopping board or oven.
Imagine my surprise when I caught myself swooning and drooling over a kitchen. If these walls were in my house, I would be nurturing soufflés and simmering beef bourguignon within reach of no less than seventy-three spice varieties.
Notice the frayed edges dangling from the table. If only I could rip textiles apart and drape them perfectly under exposed light bulbs. Though I have to admit, my neurosis would likely keep me from a wall of cupboards sheltered only by translucent glass. I would spend all my time straightening, aligning, and adjusting pristine white dishes instead of actually utilizing all those gleaming surfaces and mixing bowls.