I adore my kitchen.
Not its structure, per say, because having a window or two would have been nice. Nor its size, as the kitchen is unchallenged as the smallest room in my apartment; totally dwarfed by even the bathroom. And it’s really not about the basic appliances either. I covet the gas stove of my last apartment and the fridge is nothing to write home about.
But there is something to be said for a space feeling very much my territory.
After spending a week at home for winter break, a large portion of that spent in my mother’s spacious kitchen filled with natural light, counter space, and herbs growing in front of windows, I am somehow in a better position to appreciate my own humble apartment kitchen.
While I share the kitchen space with two lovely roommates, I am probably the only person who would count it as my favourite room. And so it was that I happily returned to my carefully stocked pantry, our impressive collection of teas, my cast iron skillet, and my apron hanging where I had left it on the wall.
And while I was happy to be reunited with kitchen, this was not a night for baking complicated bread or making enough soup to provide my lunches for the week. Instead, it was a night for pizza with pesto and prosciutto, a heaping green salad, and a bottle of chilled rose wine shared with a boy.