New Kitchen, Old Secrets

Although it became mine in 2006, my house was built in 1922, and like anything that's almost a century old—it's seen a lot. And it has secrets, even from me.

But let's back up. For at least half of May, I was living construction-zone style in the process of remodeling my kitchen. A DIY affair. I am a liberated woman, but I'd be remiss if I didn't mention that I enlisted the help of several bad-ass men to help with finer points of tear out and installation.

However, I did a lot of this remodel myself—for which I am proud. Tired and proud. Indeed, I found myself one morning wedged painfully on my back under the sink, legs splayed out on the tile floor. As I wrestled with the faucet plumbing, dropped the crescent wrench on my forehead, and swore, I suddenly had a vivid memory of my dad doing same when I was a tot. The cycle of life, guys!

It's still rough around the edges (and sinks, and window boxes), but for the most part, my kitchen is a brighter, bigger, simpler, more natural place to drink morning coffee the color of toasted almonds and bake giant homemade pizzas.

I didn't take any before pictures (dumb me!). Below is as close as I could get—some vintage pics from a Christmas party.

New wood countertops that glow goldenly in any light.

When we tore off the faux wood paneling that surrounded my kitchen, we found a secret 1920s pantry that someone sealed off 50-odd years ago (the same someone who thought putting up faux wood paneling EVERYWHERE in the house was the exact thing to do). Anyhow, all these years later and it turns out that this ancient secret cubby is the EXACT right size to slide my little black fridge into. Fate! Or luck? We can't know for sure.