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.

To illustrate the power of styling and photography (brace yourself), this kitchen is stocked with products from, drum roll please, Ikea. That’s right, Ikea.

(This kitchen was spotted on Escapade. Images from Ikea via Livet Hemma.)

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