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.