Over the past couple of weeks, my kitchen has taken a turn. It's become function over form.
There was a time when I kept this room like the others in our tiny home: organized and pretty. When eating was done, only decorative items remained. All else was dishwashed and tucked away: neatly, orderly and behind closed doors. But now that I've been using them, I realize that having things at arm's length just makes life so easy.
Suddenly there are bottles of olive oil hanging about, spoons and whisks and pinch bowls at-the-ready. Lemons and limes, thyme and empty jars. Little glass cups holding sprigs of rosemary, dunked in an inch of water.
In our small kitchen, we have a nook amongst the cabinets. Increasingly, it's becoming a drop-off spot for all manner of culinary accoutrements - silverware I'm too lazy to stow away in velvet slots, saucières, and - get this: there, in that big salad bowl, is a pile of onions, shallots and a few chunks of ginger. I've lost all control!
But, somehow, I like it. I don't even mind that my mandolin is tucked between the toaster and the French press. The convenient management of my most-used pans right on the stovetop and a clove of garlic at my fingertips are two of the high points in any day.
Somehow all the trappings have had a real affect on me lately: Comfort. Productivity. All of it reminds me of my Grandma's house, nicknacks and loaves of bread, pats of butter, and the effects of life in that place. Signs of harvest (someone's somewhere, however trucked-in) and distractions from the grey, icy coldness of winter.