You could have held a contractors convention at the construction site last week. Painters in one bedroom, trim carpenters in the next. The plumbers who were scrunching under bathroom fixtures making final hook-ups were following hot on the heels of the tilers, who were busy grouting and sealing the stone floors. Electricians were scaling ladders hanging the chandeliers, while cabinet artistes were on their knees installing the latest batch of knobs and handles.
Since final inspection has been scheduled for Wednesday, and move-in date is less than a week after that, the pressure is multiplying. Every absent sub-contractor has us texting, calling, or grilling the GC. Yet I am convinced that with a Three Musketeers ethos of “all for one and one for all” we will defy conventional wisdom and be sleeping in our new home in less than ten days. So imagine my disappointment when a recent double paged, picture-packed article in the bastion of design, the Wall Street Journal, informed me that as far as kitchens go, we blew it.
Let me describe our new kitchen. Rows and rows of meticulously hand crafted cabinets covered by highly polished counter tops. Accessory garages you can park a medium sized Kia in. A double sink, personally chosen by me, big enough to contain an entire dinner party for six–not just the dishes, the guests too. Dueling built-in ovens and a microwave that disappears into the cabinetry with the touch of a button. A light fixture that is close to Barb’s heart, and the pièce de résistance, an island roughly the size of Madagascar. We thought we had designed the most glorious galley that could be imagined.
So what was in the WSJ article that smashed our dreams? It seems that these days, those chichi New York homes now feature HIS AND HERS kitchens. That’s right, once is never enough!
Now his and hers walk-in closets I understand. I can even grasp the concept of separate (but equal) bathroom facilities. But kitchens?
Once or twice a year I make my damn good heart healthy turkey chili. And in any given winter I am prone to pull the crock pot out of the recesses of the pantry to slow cook a tasty, but not too peppery, beef goulash. But other than those occasional incidents, and sometimes spreading chopped vegies over a Home Run Inn frozen pizza before popping it in to a preheated 450º oven, I don’t really do all that much cooking.
Yes, I do much of the clean-up. But I was more than content to share the counters and cabinets, the continental island and the oceanic sink, with Barb. But now I know the truth. Because of our solo kitchen we can never be a truly hip, up-to-date, 21st century couple. So do you think I can convince Barb to that we need to do this one more time, and this time maybe we will get it right?
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