To say my new kitchen is a challenge would not begin to describe my frustration. It's a kitchen to make coffee in, to reheat take-out (which could be why the first thing the concierge demonstrated was the shelf for the microwave). But I actually like to cook and the oven's too small for any of my baking sheets. The counter's barely big enough for a dishrack let alone a breadboard and there's simply no place to roll out dough (well, except for where I'm working now).
Which makes me dream of the island, kitchen island, I had four apartments ago. 12 feet long, I could lay out catalogues, roll dough for perrogys and still have room at the end for a couple friends to hang out for drinks. No such luck, or room, now.
But I picked up a cool little dishrack at Au Printemps that's perfect--less than 8" wide--and a cutlery holder from Wilfred & Adrienne. That's a start and without spending a lot of money. Of course the big test is baking. I tried making donuts but didn't get past the dough.Even with everything cleared to the diningroom table/office, there just wasn't the room for the fill-and-flip. My donut making choreography is still set for the old kitchen space.
My tried and true banana cake worked better--at least I hope it's working better. 15 minutes past its baking time, it looks decidedly white; it's obvious I haven't figured how hot this oven actually is. (With my last, I knew to keep turning the heat down by 5 degrees.) I may end up buying dessert for tomorrow's dinner but at least the apartment smells good.
Yes it's going on week three in boxes. It makes me laugh when friends say "So now that you've moved..." What? I'll finish my novel? Open a bakery? Travel round the world? I have moved but not unpacked. I moved boxes I hadn't unpacked from my last move and that was seven years ago. I must say those were the first boxes I opened. Found a first edition of The Shining and all my old Classic Comics as well as my board games. (Risk anyone? I did unpack the tequila.)
But I'm dreading going down to the storage locker to get the first boxes I moved. Even though those boxes have my books. Because this place is filling up fast. My walk-in closet is more like a crawl-in. (I actually managed to fit my bike in there.) Thank God for the long weekend so I can clean out that closet. And hang up pictures. And organize the kitchen.
At least the bedroom and bathroom are done. To make up for the lack of a linen closet, I moved an old Ikea bookcase next to the tub. (I've got the make-up and assorted cleansers on top, then the hair appliances and my towels on the bottom.)
Unfortunately, like most apartments I've lived in, the tub looks like the original one. This doesn't mean it's a nice deep clawfoot, then I wouldn't mind the chips or the brushstrokes of an amateur repaint job. Or the constant drip or the lousy drainage which means I'm showering ankle-deep in water. (Did you know landlords aren't required to use a real plumber? Yet more and more leases require the tenant to take responsibility for plumbing or at least blockages.) Still, it's a step-up from the last place where the bathroom vent looked like a Louisiana swamp. Remember when landlords cleaned air vents on a yearly basis? Now even if it looks like a Louisiana swamp, good-luck in getting anyone from the city or the Regie to do anything. Even though the health ramifications of indoor air pollution are on the rise. But that's another blog...
The latest is number 19 though my brothers,
who've helped me through many moves,
would claim I've lived in many more.
Actually it only feels that way especially after a scant two weeks after the big box-up.
After 7 years on the waste island, waking up in the city feels like waking up in Paris. I walk Eddy to the Second Cup for a latte and a croissant then down Greene to his old haunts. Funny how he remembers who to hit up for cookies. He stands inside the bank and barks and people come running. I have to warn them not to pet him or even put out their hands--there's something about flapping fingers in front of his face that sends him absolutely ballistic--but they're oddly forgiving. "He's old. He's allowed to be crabby." (Uh no, the word actually is psycho but even that's okay. Westmounters are a lot like Parisians when it comes to their dogs which means almost anything goes. People are a different matter.)
It's because of Eddy that the boxes have to go and soon. He's a tiny dog and the boxes lining the wall, piled five high, threaten to topple and crush him. With a new season of bookselling on its way, more boxes are on their way.
The problem in a tiny place is there's no place to put things while unpacking. The kitchen is the worst and for now, I've had to give up cooking. I have enough counter space for a cutting board or dish rack. And the cutlery tray is taking up half the space I thought I created by moving in a little table. I know it's going to come together--I envision the dishrack above the sink (oh where are you, handyman of my dreams?) and another shelf above that. But right now I'm gnashing my teeth and stashing the knives away.
To say my new kitchen is a challenge would not begin to describe my frustration. It's a kitchen to make coffee in, to reheat take-out (which could be why the first thing the concierge demonstrated was the shelf for the microwave). But I actually like to cook and the oven's too small for any of my baking sheets. The counter's barely big enough for a dishrack let alone a breadboard and there's simply no place to roll out dough (well, except for where I'm working now).
My tried and true banana cake worked better--at least I hope it's working better. 15 minutes past its baking time, it looks decidedly white; it's obvious I haven't figured how hot this oven actually is. (With my last, I knew to keep turning the heat down by 5 degrees.) I may end up buying dessert for tomorrow's dinner but at least the apartment smells good.
