Running Of The Beasts

Jambo Jambo from the North Serengeti in Tanzania.

We arrived late yesterday afternoon after another eventful day on Tinker Toy Airlines. Two more flights in quick succession left me a bit woozy, but I'm still here. If you're new to me and my traumas, or why I am so obsessed with these flights, it has nothing to do with fear of the teeny-tiny airplanes or the heights. I am just trying to get from place to place without losing what's left of my stomach acid. (Trust me. There's no food in there.) These African countries use airplanes the way we might use a Greyhound bus. The countries are simply too vast and the populations too spread out to drive. So, in order to get to where we want to go, I am in a constant state of vertigo. I am not complaining (much), but it is something to think about if you are planning a safari or four.

We made this trek to Tanzania to see the southern migration of the wildebeest, a natural phenomenon that is a splendour to behold. Now there is a sentence I never thought I'd write in my life.  Our guide James, a driver so skilled he should be at Daytona, explained that the wildebeest migrate to the four corners of the Serengeti depending on the season. During this southern migration, they are headed south to give birth. They will head east to get it on and west to find greener pastures. They follow a clockwise motion and continue the pattern forever. Climate change has played some havoc with their biological clocks, but what hasn't climate change played havoc with?

These are really stupid animals. I mean, really stupid!!  We spent over eleven hours today watching these morons roam back and forth across the plains looking for an acceptable place to cross the river. Can you imagine? There are an estimated 1.5-3 million wildebeest that make their home here in the Serengeti, and every single one of them will make the crossing. 

It was some of the best eleven hours I have ever spent. We saw three and a half crossings, and it was a sight to behold. Sometimes they ran, sometimes they walked, and there was even one stampede. The people back at camp told us how incredibly lucky we were. It usually doesn't happen like that. James is da' man!  

We arrived back at Ubuntu Bush Camp dirty, exhausted, a bit sunburned, and incredibly excited. In a million years, I could never have imagined a day like today.

A bit about Ubuntu Camp. This is a true migration camp, which means they pull up stakes at the conclusion of the migration and follow the wildebeest down south. It is the most rustic of the safaris we've been on so far, but it is still quite lovely. You really haven't lived until you've taken a bucket shower or slept in mosquito netting. Neither of those are nearly as difficult as they sound, so don't let it dissuade you. It is really worth the effort.

A few odds and ends.

I have learned a lot of new euphemisms for urinating. Out of respect for the culture and the people here, I will refrain from publishing them publicly. If anyone is weirdly curious, I will supply a few offline.

I am a city girl at heart. I like the hustle and bustle and comforts of the twenty-first century. I will not deny it. But I have a deep and unending love for nature in all its forms, and I love learning how different cultures and communities live their lives with respect for their surroundings. The best way to educate oneself is to travel. The best way to learn respect for people is to live in their spaces and ask them questions. In spite of some of my difficulties, I wouldn't give up travelling for anything.

Is it really possible to become blasé about seeing animals multiple times? I can't believe we are in the "Eh...another impala" phase. Never become complacent. There is always something new.

By the way, a group of wildebeest is called a confusion. This is for all my Hearoglyphics players. 

An Hour in a Balloon

It takes so little to make people feel welcome: a handshake, an introduction by name, or maybe a cold beverage. Kindness goes a long way to making a stranger feel at home.

The Kenyan people are amongst the loveliest and friendliest people we have encountered on our travels. Everybody, from drivers/guides to managers, waiters, and room attendants, has extended open arms and a solicitous embrace.  Sometimes, it can be difficult for our North American sensibilities to discover that people just want to be kind. Even during a small hiccup like our jeep breaking down in the Mara this morning, the Hakuna Matata attitude is prevalent. (That's a real phrase, by the way.) "No worries. We've found you another jeep with a new driver." Of course, he's a newbie and got a bit lost on the way back to camp, but we just said. Hakuna Matata.

Many times since we got here, I have felt like I am in The Lion King. It is not an exaggeration to suggest that Disney did a great job capturing this part of the world. The starkness and desolation of the landscape are striking. They desperately need rain right now and are praying to any god and using any folk tale that might bring it. The riverbeds are drying up, and the animals are starting to thirst for green pastures. It is part of the difficult life cycles and weather patterns here on the Mara. Even the acacia trees are parched.

We left Ol Pejeta yesterday and flew (if what we did could actually be called flying) to Encounter Mara in the Maasai territory. I won't belabour this transportation nightmare, but it needs to be said that this is not a great tourist attraction. We did a milk run. Four stops for a trip that should have taken forty-five minutes. Some of those flights were less than six minutes. I don't recommend it, but now that I am of a sounder mind, the alternatives are worse. Either a six-hour jeep ride, or there is always the two-footed way. As much as I can't stomach these flights (insert your pun groan here), I am fully aware that they are really the best options. We sat at dinner last night with the assistant manager of the camp. Mercy regaled us with fabulous stories of her Maasai heritage, and then she told us how afraid she is to fly on these flights. That doesn't really inspire confidence. I will keep getting on these balsa wood contraptions that are held together by chewing gum and rubber bands because it is part of the adventure. I am actually counting down the remaining flights in my head. When I get to a workable number, I will let you know. 

I mentioned somewhere that we are all operating on very little sleep. That's because we are at the whims of the animals and their habits. If my thought process in these missives is a bit muddled, blame it on the lack of sleep and the copious amounts of antiemetics I've been taking. My grammar and spelling may be a bit rough. Be kind. This morning, we were out of here by 4:30am to drive to our balloon safari. If you haven't been ballooning, I highly recommend it. It is so beautiful and peaceful. From our perch several hundred feet above the savannah, we could see herds of zebras, wildebeest, ostriches, impala, eland, and some very shy lions. (We knew they were there, but we couldn't see them.) There was a glorious sunrise, and it was a wonderful way to get a different view of the territory. Breakfast on the ridge followed. This was a good way to fly.

Several of you have mentioned to me that you might be interested in this trip or a similar one someday. We should talk offline about it. It is magical, spectacular, and definitely not for everyone. I am not trying to dissuade anybody, but some of the conditions are tough, even in our glamping style of travel. The continent of Africa is big. So big! Plan wisely.

A few photos to keep you sated.

Go 2 Africa

I have never been particularly fond of the term "bucket list."

It seems to imply that death is involved. I don't want to think about impending doom while planning my lifetime experiences. I want to live my life to the fullest without worrying about things I may miss. I'm pretty sure that I won't remember any of this after I've kicked the proverbial bucket, but the memories I am creating for myself in the here and now are priceless. 

And that brings me to our long-talked-about and meticulously planned trip to Africa. I have been talking about this trip for more than thirty years. I'm fairly certain that The Husband has been lulled into more than one soporific state as I yammered on about safaris. As far as I am concerned, there are three types of travel experiences. 

1) The lie-on-the-beach, sipping sweet drinks with umbrellas, watch the glorious sunset kind of trip. Everybody needs this kind of travel every once in a while. It sparks one's dormancy, reignites creativity, and reminds the traveller that happiness exists.

2) The see-all-the-European capitals in ten days kind of trip. This is the "If it is Tuesday, It Must Be Belgium" model of travel. (If you haven't seen that movie, it is a good "oldie.") You see everything, run from the Mona Lisa to the Crown Jewels, eat lots of lovely delicacies, and return home with pictures that confuse Tower Bridge with London Bridge. Nice vacation. Learn a lot. See new things, but you feel a bit hollow at the end and thirst for more. 

3) The Adventure. This one is my personal favourite. I need to see new things. I need to experience stuff up close and personal. I never had the opportunity to travel post-university, so I am making up for it now. This is where my obsession with Africa and its safaris was born. 

After dozens of travel experiences encompassing all of the three I mentioned, this fall is all about Africa. We have been working on this trip for two years. I didn't expect we would be gutting our kitchen at the same time, but sometimes a snowball just has to roll downhill.

We left Brussels (it only took us thirty seconds to clear passport control on the way out. (They clearly want to get rid of the tourists this season) for an overnight flight to Cairo and landed in Nairobi early yesterday morning. We were exhausted. Our rooms weren't ready, so the four of us camped out in the lobby like a bunch of teenagers on their way home from camp. We took a day for downtime. We all really needed it, and we knew that we had an early morning pickup and flight to our first bush camp, Ol Pejeta. I was a bit taken aback by the size of our aircraft. I think they built the fucking thing out of Lego. An 8-seater propeller job that I am certain the Wright Brothers flew. Well, I did say I wanted adventure. I shan't get into the details of this flight, but suffice it to say, I lost weight today. I have great friends. If you want to put something on your "bucket list," I would suggest finding people who don't mind seeing you at your absolute worst. That's Twin Son and His Better Half. I mean, these people have been collecting barf bags for me from every flight, just in case. Now that's true friendship. 

Once I collected myself, we found ourselves on our way to our first bush camp in Ol Pejeta. This is where the magic started. All of a sudden, we were surrounded by native African animals. Gazelles, giraffes, elephants, rhinoceroses, and zebras were everywhere. The Husband couldn't click his camera fast enough. I was simply mesmerized. This isn't like a Disney World ride. This is a place, a conservancy, that has converted 94,000 acres of cattle ranch into a savannah where native species can live their best lives. Sometimes that life ends abruptly when lions or leopards make them dinner, but that is the entire point of this camp. It is here to keep these beauties thriving in the ecosystems they were born into. Honestly, it is The Lion King come to life, right down to sunset.

An aside. Did you know that the folks at Disney named the warthog Pumbaa because his name in Swahili means stupid? I think I might start calling certain folks Pumbaa.

We went on a three-hour game-watching excursion this afternoon, and I was captivated. I told our fabulous guide, Abdi, that it was life-altering. Twin Son leaned over to me and whispered, "This is fucking awesome." And it was. FUCKING AWESOME. We have another day and night here, and then on to our next camp in Masai Mara. My only concern is that I have to get on those freaking Tinker Toy aircraft at least three more times. Lots of bags.

A few photos. (The Husband will post later. His are better.)

We Need To Talk About Belgium

Let’s talk about Belgium.

Brussels is a really beautiful city. It has a very old-world European flavour and a mix of cultures due to its borders with France, Germany, and the Netherlands. The people have been lovely, and I have really enjoyed hearing the mixture of languages. My French, long dormant, has been slightly reactivated during these three days, but I am embarrassed to admit that it really does suck eggs. (Or should I say ouefs?) While sitting on the train yesterday to Bruges, the young couple beside us had a running dialogue going for the entire one-hour and forty-minute trip in German. I think I picked up a few words and phrases. I was startled to find out that they hated JD Vance almost as much as Canadians do. Trust me. The language was exacting and very pointed. The word idiot seems to be universal.

For a small country, Belgium has given a lot to the world's pop culture and culinary scene. We took a food tour in the old part of downtown Brussels, and I walked away wondering how the entire country isn't in a diabetic coma. So much sugar. So much chocolate. So much beer. The foodie experience is definitely thriving here, but I definitely cried "Uncle" after the chocolate mousse. And...I really don't like beer, but when a country is this proud of its product, it is rude not to indulge. 

I was far more excited to visit all of the shrines to the Smurfs, Tintin, and Jacques Brel. I have loved the Smurfs ever since they made their way to North America when I was still a frustrating teenager. There is just something about those little blue trolls that makes me uncommonly happy. I still have some of the original rubber dudes somewhere in a box. They exude such positivity and joy. The world could be a bit more Smurf-like right now, in my humble opinion. The Belgians love their comics. Like the Smurfs, Tintin is everywhere. He adorns buildings, is big in toy stores, and is big on sweatshirts. How can you not love a country that bathes in beer, chocolate, and cartoons?

I will say that I am less enamoured by the transportation options in this country. Our first impressions were decidedly marred by the five and a half hour wait to get to passport control. According to everyone we spoke to, this mess has been going on all summer. You know there is a problem when the airport hires a bunch of young people to distribute water and Biscoff to planeloads of really pissed-off and exhausted travellers. Five and a half hours!!! That is not an exaggeration. People were passing out in the line. By the time we made it to the kiosk, we could hardly remember our own names. The agent asked us how long we were going to be in Belgium and where we were headed after. I couldn't get the city names out of my cotton-filled mouth. I apologized and told him we were really tired. He just looked at me with a forlorn look and told me he totally understood. He then launched into a bit of a bitch session about how they have been begging for help, but nobody listens. I wanted to commiserate, but honestly, he had a chair, so I wasn't all that sympathetic. We were also ripped off by our taxi from the airport. I think our driver saw our spent expressions and thought to himself, "I think I'll take the long way to their hotel." Finally, the in-country trains are anything but a joy. They are packed, kind of sticky, and uncomfortable. While I loved our day trip to Bruges and would do it again, I would spring for the 1st class tickets. 

I am typing this from the airport lounge as we await our flight out of here. (Passport control took all of 2 minutes on the way out. I think they just want to see our backsides.) Long day and night ahead as we head out. Keep you posted. If you aren't following The Husband on Facebook or Instagram, you are missing out on his photos. Trust me, they are way better than mine. 

Onward and upward. 

Murals on sides of buildings

Tintin

The Destruction is Imminent

Why would anyone put themselves through this nightmare for a fourth time?

There are a variety of reasons why people choose to upgrade their living space. It doesn't function as it should. Perhaps it is caught in a mid-twentieth-century time warp of olive greens and mustard yellows. Maybe everyday conveniences, like a dishwasher, are failing. Our last Toronto-based kitchen renovation began with a leaky faucet and mushroomed into a complete gutting of the space, knocking out exterior and interior walls. More likely, the space just doesn't satisfy the owner's taste profile. I know people who are in constant renovation mode. They are never satisfied. No sooner is the paint dry, than they are on to the next room. It is expensive and exhausting. 

In a previous post, I mentioned this kitchen was designed by a very high-end company. A lot of money was wasted on this cuisine, but money can't buy taste or style. I rarely criticize another person's sense of panache, but after living with this kitchen for a decade, I believe I've earned the right. There are a lot of lovely little things, but when taken together as a whole, this kitchen just sucks.

In every renovation project, there comes a point when I start to question the sanity of the project. It is never just a kitchen remodel. It is an intense delving into the deepest recesses of my life's choices. 

Should I really be using gas for cooking? That's really bad for the environment and my asthma, don't you know? 

If we go with induction technology, we have to dispose of all our current pots and pans, save the cast iron. Did you know that cookware shopping is kind of like car shopping? There is a sucker born with every sale of an inadequate non-stick fry pan. Out, damn PFAS, out. 

Am I wedded to the paint colour in the rest of the condo? You know the one. The one I chose with loving care only four years ago. The colour that calms me! The answer is a resounding maybe.

And the biggest question of all...

When we remove the wall unit in the family room, where are we going to store The Husband's scotch collection? 

These are just some of the conundrums facing us. 

The butler's pantry (or the scullery, as The Husband is calling it, because apparently he has transformed into Lord Bernstein of King West Manor, First of His Name) is almost completed. A stand-alone freezer will occupy some of the space, while the rest will be prep area, small appliance storage, a secondary sink, and, stunning as it might seem, an actual pantry. There will be access to this space via a hidden door from the kitchen. This construction will be ongoing as the guys move on to further gutting next week. I am starting to see the vision, and it is all The Husband's. We are now furiously packing up the kitchen, so that this really messy work can happen while we are out of the country. Who am I kidding? The messy work will still be here when we return in three weeks. If anyone reading this thinks that this is a great opportunity to rob us while we are away, good luck to you. You will be met at the door by angry Russians with power tools. I pity the fool.

The most liberating part of all of this is that, in theory, I have stopped worrying about every little scratch and spill. Last week I baked a challah for Rosh Hashanah and spilled egg wash on the oven door. Did I stress it? Of course I did, because that's who I am, but I only cleaned it off marginally. I've stopped trying to keep up with dusting everything. It is a losing battle. The Husband asked me today if he could throw away a pan he was having trouble scrubbing. I almost said yes. (We will donate any still left after our kids have their picks.) I am less cognizant of making the countertops and sinks shine. Of course, my lovely cleaning person is coming the day before we leave, just in case you thought I'd completely abandoned my Type A. The Husband has been mocking me mercilessly about cleaning the kitchen just as we are gutting it. I'll take that hit. The broken wine fridge isn't bothering me the same way it has for a year. The splatters inside the microwave have fallen away like autumn leaves. I am trying to find the zen in all of this. I won't lie, it's difficult. It's going to take a very long plane ride next week and some very special narcotics to put most of this in my rearview mirror. 

In the meantime, we are picking out countertops this week. The new appliances have been ordered and will be delivered...um...sometime. The sink (a full workstation sink for those who have been following along) is being ordered today. The cabinet dudes are coming on Thursday to finalize our finishing choices. We need to make some organizational decisions about drawer inserts, spice placements, and dividers. 

It's a process. A very long process. Out with the old and in with the mess.

After Yom Kippur, I will keep you all apprised of our travels. I'm not sure I'll use this space because it isn't phone-friendly, and since we have weight restrictions on our luggage, schlepping my computer may not be in the cards.  Keep you posted. Here's a hint. The first leg of the trip is Audrey Hepburn's country of birth.

Building the "Scullery"

Butler's Pantry is coming together

Design Vs Functionality

Let's talk about design vs functionality.

This kitchen is the fourth one that The Husband and I have gutted, renovated, and refurbished over the course of our various homeownerships. I think that is more than enough for any long-term relationship. He might beg to differ, but I am adamant that this is the last. If any of my future kitchens ever require upgrading or rehabilitating, I plan on hiring Crazy Larry the arsonist and collecting the insurance money. I am so done.

Years ago, when we were in the planning stages for our previous kitchen reno in the North Jewish Ghetto, our designer, a lovely and brilliant artist, asked me if I wanted a functional kitchen or an attractive one. I stared at him like he had grown a second head. Why do I have to choose one over the other? He explained that a fair number of his clients cared more about the aesthetics than the practicality of the space. I didn't understand why anyone would spend the amount of money required to make this happen, only to misspend it on silly finishings. We cook, bake, and use our kitchen daily. We entertain. We may not be Gordon Ramsey, nor are we ready for Top Chef, but we love the kitchen experience. There is a scene in the original Sex and the City where Carrie opens her oven, and we see that she stores her sweaters in there. The only item in her fridge is wine. This isn't us. 

When we renovated our kitchen in the Southern Home, we were on a strict budget. We didn't want to spend money frivolously, but we wanted the space to look attractive while maintaining maximum functionality. This is a second home. Top-of-the-line appliances were not in the cards, but I still knew I wanted a few things to make working in that space easier. Chief amongst my demands was a full sink. I hate a split sink with two sides: the washing and the drying. You can't properly wash a cookie sheet without getting soaking wet. I might as well lather up and shower in the kitchen. It is such an irritant to me. Split sinks are my number one pet peeve about kitchens. Split sinks are stupid in the age of dishwashers. So, imagine my horror when we left the contractors in charge of the sink choice, and they installed the dreaded double, even though I was very clear about what I wanted. By the time we arrived back south, there was no way to fix the issue without gutting the counters, some cabinets, and the dishwasher. I was, and remain, extremely pissed to this day. 

People put a lot of stupid things in their kitchens. Usually, it is at the behest of a designer who sees it as an artistic endeavour rather than a cooking space. I have hated our kitchen since we moved in ten years ago. It was beautifully designed by a top-line kitchen company, but I would place a Kalshi bet that nobody cooked here. The stove was broken when we moved in. The original oven was gas-powered. Every time I baked cookies, it turned them to cinders. We replaced it soon after we arrived. Likewise, the microwave was garbage.

No other microwave would fit here.

A new one was needed immediately. Unfortunately, they designed the microwave garage too small for any decent machine, so we could only buy a small and low-powered model. It was the only one on the market that fit the space. The previous owners were very into Art Deco. I love Art Deco, but they didn't really think it through in a functional kitchen. There is a double-level bar that takes away from workspace, and they added a lip to the countertop.

 

A built-in dust and crumb collector

As far as I can tell, the only purpose of this lip, other than to satisfy somebody's sense of beauty, is to prevent dust and crumbs from falling on the floor. It is a bitch to clean. The cabinets don't go all the way to the ceiling, once again adding a dust catcher to the space. I can't clean up there unless I'm on a ladder. (To be fair, I can't reach anything in this kitchen without a ladder!) There are outlets which don't fit any North American-wattage appliance.

See the white outlet? It doesn't fit any appliance that we own.

We were told that if we want to put in a cooktop rather than a stove, we need 40 amps rather than the 30 we have. So much stupid was built into such a small space. Our dishwasher is starting to die. It takes several cycles to drain, and the parts no longer exist to repair it. 

And then there's the sink.

Remember how angry I was about the Southern sink. That was mild compared to this one. I knew from the minute we moved in that this sink was the apex of kitchen stupidities. There are three, count 'em, three basins. Why? Only their designer knows for sure. This bullshit isn't even on the original blueprints for the condo. We have surmised that the small, dopey one in the back must have been for a garburator. Garburators are illegal in the City of Toronto, so it is possible that they got caught with it and either had to remove it or never installed it. Still, I would have changed the sink if I were them. Who puts a sink in a corner? What hairbrained idiot thought this was a good idea? You can only imagine my feelings about this crap. If a double sink is fucking idiotic, then this sends my annoyance levels off the charts. In ten years, I have gotten wet while using our kitchen sink every fucking time. I never leave the kitchen dry. If there is one single reason for this renovation, it is this ridiculous sink. 

Seriously? WTF is this for?

My daily bath

So, here we are. Designing a kitchen for functionality and aesthetics. Our aesthetics. But I am also very demanding that we have a sink that can fit a pasta pot without starting a water fight, a microwave that doesn't take 3 minutes to melt a stick of butter, a counter that is easily cleaned, an oven that doesn't incinerate my baking, a dishwasher that drains properly, and cabinets that I can reach without climbing MT. FUCKING EVEREST. (I am not getting any younger.)

Thankfully, we have good people to work with. If I have learned any lessons from my quartet of kitchen renovations, it's that you must have people who listen to you and buy into your vision. Never hire contractors or designers who want things their way. I mean, who is paying the bills for this, us or them? The answer is never them.

 

Returning to My Roots

I created this blog almost nineteen years ago to keep my mom updated on our kitchen renovations. It started on a very fledgling tool called Facebook Notes. I would quickly type up something stupid, add a photo so that Mom could get an idea of the destruction and progress (in those days, uploading a single photo for a post on Zuck's site was a time-sucking exercise that would have tried the patience of Job), and then put the whole thing in a note. My parents would typically travel to some exotic location in the early fall before making their way to their snowbird home. They weren't here to follow the construction, so those silly updates kept Mom in the loop. 

Facebook was fairly raw in those days. Many of the features available today didn't exist back in 2007. I never knew what it was to tag anybody, so I simply posted my little vanity posts, hoping that Mom would see them. It was my version of an electronic letter.

I had no idea that other people were reading them until the posts started receiving comments from other family members and friends. Apparently, I had created a five-minute hit of entertainment for a small corner of the intertoobs. Those little missives attracted a minuscule but dedicated audience, and I was sucked into the vortex. I eventually moved those posts to this Blogger site, and the rest is history. I was blogging at a time when blogging was a real thing. I moved on from kitchen reno updates to offering my opinions on a variety of subjects. I never tailored the space to any specific "influencer" site. Honestly, I am not talented enough to speak on any one subject with any kind of authority or depth. I simply enjoyed the writing and the venting. For years, I wrote every day. I saw this space as a public journal, and I received encouragement from other women doing the same. I was caustic, opinionated, a wee bit funny, and sometimes I challenged the popular views of the day. I sometimes turned this space into a travel blog when we travelled, a recipe blog when I needed cooking ideas, and more recently, it has hosted some special letters I have written to my granddaughters. 

I stopped writing regularly because the internet became a place that wasn't always safe to express my opinions. Bots would regularly invade my comments. Hate was on display even in the most anodyne of posts. And to be honest, blogging and bloggers moved on. Podcasts took over the spaces that blogs used to occupy. Why would anyone want to read something they could listen to? Most podcasts are now visual as well as auditory. Simulcasting on YouTube is a must in that world. It is the new television. The Husband tried to convince me to start a podcast, back when little nothings like me could actually find a platform in that world. Today, unless you are affiliated with a media organization or have a famous name (Amy Poehler), podcasting isn't the democratic outlet it purports to be. AI has taken over much of the writing universe. It all sounds the same. I swear on the lives of those I hold dear that I have never and will never use AI to write a post. The prose coming out of ChatGPT or Claude is so pedantic and boring. It may be grammatically perfect, but it is so fucking dry and dull; I can't imagine wanting that for myself. 

So, this little online journal has sat mostly dormant. I haven't written as much because there isn't all that much to say that hasn't already been said. My parents can no longer engage with my writing, having lost some of those abilities. Most of us are so inundated with content daily; why would anybody care about reading what my warped mind produces? 

In that vein, I am returning this space to its original purpose. I will be using it to document our fairly extensive renovations. Yup. It's a kitchen blog once more. 

We have lived in this condo for ten years now. That is as startling to me as it might be to some of you. We told ourselves that we wouldn't make any hasty decisions about renovations until we had lived in the space for a while. A decade is far longer than a while. Other issues and expenses took priority. There was a wedding, two grandchildren, a pandemic, some family health issues, a few unfortunate deaths, and the unwinding of a business to deal with. But we are finally ready to tear it down and build it back up. We will be gutting our kitchen, fixing our family/tv area, adding storage, and cleaning up some of the stupid stuff we inherited from the previous owners. I will post on here from time to time to show some of the progress, some of the mess, and much of the vision. A lot of this foresight comes from The Husband. He is great with these kinds of projects. I want to curl up in a fetal position in a corner and pretend it isn't happening. We will be leaving for several weeks during the construction for a long-awaited trip, which I won't spoil just yet. I am hoping that much of the really dirty work gets done while we are out of town. In the dark recesses of my mind, I know this is highly unlikely. The bittersweet part of this shift back to a kitchen blog is that Mom can't really follow along. Her computer skills have kind of gone AWOL. I will bring it to her to read when I visit. I do think she will get a kick out of it. 

Here are some early photos of the first phase of destruction. Lord, give me enough sanity to get through it.

Old Pantry

Beginning the new pantry