9 x 12: Chapter 1 - Kitchen Tetris

Late June 2018
The old house was empty. I looked at the large kitchen now devoid of pots and pans and experienced a form of existential angst. Outwardly, my physical kitchen space represents me and my work I thought. Inwardly I reasoned, it doesn’t matter where I cook, the space doesn’t define me, it’s what comes out of it that does. However, in a world where we are so often judged by our material surroundings, I couldn’t help but wonder if my new space would be viewed as favorably. A truck horn beep beeped outside. This was not the time for deeper analysis. The movers were waiting. I closed the door on the five lovely years we had experienced in that house, taking the imprint of the kitchen, and all that came out of it with me. There would be time to reflect later.

Before we moved, I drew a scale plan of the new house complete with outlines of furniture, calculated the lineal feet of shelf space needed for my cookbooks, and worked out the storage space necessary for the mini warehouse of products, all down to the last inch. I was prepared, ready for the move, until of course, the thorny ways of life inserted itself into the best laid plans.

Prior to the big day we had carefully arranged all the boxes, each marked with its future room destination, in the cavernous garage of the old house. I like things to be organized. It made it easy for the movers to pack everything into their trucks. Off we went. Once on the new doorstep, they set up their ramps and proceeded to unload at lightning speed. It was apparent in minutes that what I had envisioned, the careful progression of boxes, piled neatly in each designated room to then be unpacked, was a wishful figment of my imagination. The space was smaller. There was nowhere to put all the boxes other than in one giant pile in the living room. It grew, like a volcano spewing lava, threatening to overflow through the windows and into the street. When the avalanche of stuff had finally stopped flowing out of the trucks, I stood in stunned silence at the enormity of the task ahead. Where had it all come from? Didn’t we just do a massive purge, didn’t we just get rid of 1500 books? The mover, holding his back, after having lugged the last of the heavy book boxes, shook his head slightly whilst looking at the stacks and said, not too optimistically “good luck!” Cheeky sod.

My son, who like most people born into an English family, functions on tea, said ‘where’s the kettle?’ I pointed at the pile of boxes. “Somewhere in there” I answered. After much eye rolling, comments about better planning, huffing and puffing, the essential box was located, unpacked and a much-needed cup of tea produced. We also needed a new plan of attack.

Mother Knows Best and The Armoire