Over the past several weeks, we've been moving. We moved about a mile but it may as well have been across the country.
I'm bad at moving. Really bad. My husband? Really good. He's a labeler (his Brother P-Touch is a prized possession,) box organizer, plan-ahead guy. I'm of the "just think how nice it will be, where should the KitchenAid mixer go and where should we hang the copper pots?" variety...before I've even packed a box. Not "unpacked" ..."packed".
But we made it. I did, anyway. He's still recovering.
My favorite room in the new house is, of course, the kitchen. My sweet friend Annie cooked in this kitchen for ten years and it is filled with her essence: roasted chickens and potatoes, apple tarts, panna cotta, farmers' market breakfasts, beautiful holiday meals, afternoon tea, and the smell of sweet butter melting into the countless pastries and pies she and her daughters made here. Annie also moved about a mile away into a house with another beautiful kitchen. It's big and it's downright dreamy. I've warned her that I'll be descending upon it to wreak havoc and I'm told I'm most welcome.
But oh to unpack into a big, clean palette. Drawers and shelves and cupboards all waiting to be filled with the things that, for me, are at the core of feeling at home. Spoons and apple slicers and pancake molds and knives and big pots. Jams, plum sauce, rice, pasta, olive oil and vinegars. And, at least for the next week or so, they'll all be in their proper places.
I can hear the sounds of meals to come and it fills me with joy.
Thank you, Annie, for your kitchen. I will fill it with warm meals and love.
