I hate my kitchen. Really. And. Truly. It’s the only thing about my house that I genuinely despise.
I live in Silicon Valley, where the price per square foot is ridiculously off the chart in comparison with the rest of the country, so even a small dwelling bears a price tag that would indicate that you must be rich and famous elsewhere.
Like wizened billionaires, my kitchen is unattractive and ugly. It’s small and narrow; two people have to choreographtheir moves to stay out of each other’s way. You can’t open the unusually small oven door if you are getting something out of the refrigerator (fortunately, I don’t have this conflict often). Functionally, it does what it’s supposed to. There’s a fridge (actually two since there are six of us), a double oven, and a range top that’s exactly like the one in Graceland. Yep, I can cook like the King. How long has that guy been dead, anyway?