What was I thinking? I woke up in a state of shock. They were coming to rip out my kitchen. Look what happened.
This kitchen–the heart of our home, our sanctuary filled with laughter–was a place with many treasured memories.
At this counter I made school lunches at dawn putting cute notes into my kids’ lunch boxes. At our table, I enjoyed peaceful lunches alone after laundry and chores and at dinner—we ate together every evening—we learned what happened in each other’s day. At the stove I’d cooked umpteen meals.
Sure, on some days there was a stressed out spouse. There was a teenaged daughter who insisted on sitting with knee drawn up, like a rickshaw puller, as my mother would say. And there was an exhausted football player who got revitalized with the smells from my wok when he entered.
We cleaned up together. I threw some great curve balls with dishcloths. Once my children wrestled and pinned me to the ground to prove that they were getting stronger, right there near the peninsula. This kitchen housed a happy family.
And then? What was I doing? Tearing this place apart?
That’s what I said to Ted at about 5 on the morning of demolition. And even surprising myself I burst into tears. Judging from the initial silence, he must have thought I’d gone bonkers. Didn’t we plan this for years?
From under the pillows, “Uh… What about that Mary Conodo thing? What happened to sparks of joy and thanking your kitchen?”
What does he know? I huffed, and declared I’m off to the gym. He’s getting too smart.
We—I?—have been planning a dream kitchen for about three years. I loved my kitchen, clinging on to the white appliances to match my cabinets when my friends went for stainless steel. Loved the blue stripe wallpaper, the Formica white counter (so easy to clean).
I even like my electric glass top range. Someone said for the cooking I do I should get a gas stove. Putting in a gas line would cost me $20,000. Crazy. I don’t need a gas stove, I’m convinced. One day we’ll be old and I don’t need to worry about a flame burning unattended.
Chefs aren”t coming to my blog to get recipes. I write for regular folks, not professionals. Many people use electric ranges; I’m with them.
My kitchen did need refurbishing. It was getting a bit dated. Yeah, white bathroom tiles aren’t cool. And a couple of drawers were wonky, thanks to overweight junk and a toddler stepping on them.
I could make some changes, like eliminating the long-distance dash from range to sink to drain blanch veggies. See how far the sink is from the oven. A cook didn’t design this.
Renovations is hard work. We had to pick contractors, and work out budgets. Do we use a designer or not? What style, make of cabinets, choice of appliance, wall oven or range and oven, island or peninsula? It can hit you like a virus. Ours spread from kitchen to family room to laundry room to dining room, to painting trims on main floor.
If only I could point to photos I’d been drooling over on Houzz or Pinterest and say, “Give me that.” And then with a whisk, whip up a new, modern kitchen.
With so many options available refurbishing is like previewing a banqueting table and wondering how to stuff all of it in. Like choosing healthful foods that are also tasty, I want to make practical, money-wise decisions. With style.
That means picking quality stuff to suit budget. Research, compare, research, compare. Repeat. I know far too much about faucets and sinks than I care to know. They had no time for me at a marble showroom. Go quartz! Too many decisions.
Don’t get me wrong. I realize this is a good thing and I’m thankful for it. I’m whining about this when there are so many real problems? But the last thing I enjoy is selecting tiles, counters and floors. Some people love this, even do this for a living. I’d rather peel 50 pounds of potato.
I had to choose colors. I’m colorblind. We’re bad with the nuances of colors. Luckily Ted has good color sense but how quickly he decides have me worrying. I know when he’s matching clothes for me that speed takes precedence over style.
Until that morning, I thought the selections and the other major stressful part were over. For months just the thought of clearing the kitchen, dining and family rooms left me in a funk.
I mean clearing. Every big and little thing until the room is bare, sans furniture. It was laborious.
My buddy Sandy Praske came to the rescue as she decided also to clear out stuff in her house. We kept each other accountable as we texted each other of our messes, the enormity of our projects and our progress.
I started a day at a time, one room at a time, one cupboard at a time, sending Sandy photos of my progress.
Then one box at a time, I transferred all my breakable possessions from china cabinet to my basement. Up and down, up and down. Sandy and I cheered each other along the way. Here was where Ted heard about Marie Kondo. Dumping without guilt. Thankfully a Goodwill Store is blocks away.
There’s something philosophical I learned here about fighting problems: tackle one small step at a time.
Here’s our exchange of photos:
Sandy texted me her progress:
I sent her mine:
It took weeks but it was, well, doable. Da dah!
I didn’t throw everything. It’s all here in my living room, see right.
That morning I hadn’t even considered the inconvenience, dust and unseen problems. I was just plain old maudlin, sentimental about losing all that was familiar.
Russ heard about my mama drama and came quickly to work from here. “Mom, you know we’ll make new memories, right?” he said. He rounded up the troops–Alison texted that she loved me, randomly apologizing for keeping me awake when she was a baby and hubby skipped an event that night because “my honey is not happy.”
Everyone tells you, you’ll love it when it’s done. Ya, I know. Like telling your kid when the braces come off she’ll look gorgeous.
But somehow when Bryon, the foreman, came to start demo, what he said and acted on changed it all, in more than one way.
“How are you?” he asked.
“I’m sad to say goodbye to my kitchen,” I said.
“Oooh,” he looked at me kindly, “A lot of people tell me that. You’re not the only one. But once I start this, you’ll feel better. Everyone does. I promise you.”
He let me smash one cabinet apart Property Brothers-style. We all laughed at my pitiful attempt but that released some energy.
And after he pulled out the cabinets and appliances, tore down a wall doubling the size of our favorite room and hauled away all the time-worn, stained and greasy stuff into a dumpster, it looked great.
And it felt good. We’re keeping the joy. Thank you, old cabinets. Good bye.
I’m going to have a new kitchen!
Before and after photos:
