I blame my severe kitchen cravings on the tiny town of Woodstock. Once I spent a lazy ski weekend in the Land of Real Kitchens, there was no turning back.
I knew I was in trouble when I saw the massive, rough-hewn table in the sun-flooded kitchenette. I envisioned cooking dinner for twelve, with beautiful place settings and sprays of flowers, the kind you see in food magazines but didn’t think existed.
I came back fixated on every flaw in my workspace. The Real Kitchen had backsplashes; mine just had splashes. This kitchen had flagstones; my floor predates the Stones. It had sliding spice racks; mine had spice avalanches.
After hearing me rhapsodize and pine, an otherwise sympathetic friend suggested that I just simply move to Vermont. But that’s not the point. I want all the light and rough-hewn wood and workspace… just in miniature. I want – I need! – to add these to my apartment:
- A rustic wood dining room table that tucks away yet folds out for eight. For years (I’m embarrassed to say) we’ve crowded around wrought-iron patio furniture, which moved inside for the winter and never moved out.
- A wood island prep space. Our dinner parties are communal affairs, with plenty of contributing cooks but almost no workspace.
- A wall-hanging spice rack. At least once a week, as I rummage for seasonings, I start a cascade of spice out my cabinets. I shield my face reflexively as spice bottles clatter to the floor.
If all goes well, I will be embarking (eep!) on a Great Kitchen Renovation this weekend, to bring more Woodstock to Brooklyn… stay tuned.