In yesterday’s print edition of the AJC I wrote about our kitchen renovation. After many years we’re finally getting rid of a space that never really worked.
This kitchen was too inviting
I had pictured the demolition of our home’s kitchen like a cinematic car crash — a slow-motion ballet of violence. Shards of wood, ceramic and granite would go flying through the air. And our contractors, with sledgehammers slung over their shoulders, would be attacking the counters with an expression akin to bloodlust in their eyes.
But after hearing an hour of banging and crashing downstairs, I warily wander down to find appliances and cabinet doors missing. The loud crashes belied a precision-tuned dismantling. The kitchen looked much as it had before — ordinary, sad, grimy.
One young man who had a chaw of tobacco stuck under his lip had found a hidden bag of Japanese eggplant pickles and asked me many questions about them. He was clearly a budding foodie.
Did it feel like