Kitchen

For years I believed I had a small kitchen with not enough storage. I’d cram cabinets until things fell out when I opened them, lose the good knife behind the

The first time I tried to make my kitchen look farmhouse, I got it wrong in the most predictable way. I bought a stack of mass-produced signs with cursive words

When I chose my first proper countertop, I picked with my eyes and nothing else. I fell for a beautiful pale marble-look surface in a showroom, signed off on it,

The kitchen in my first flat was dated in that specific, soul-sapping way: orange-toned wooden cabinets, dull brassy handles gone dark with age, a limescale-crusted tap, and a bare bulb

For the longest time my kitchen had exactly one light: a single bulb in the middle of the ceiling. I never questioned it. Then one winter evening I was chopping

For years the wall behind my hob was painted plain, and for years I scrubbed it. Every fried onion, every splash of turmeric-stained oil, every enthusiastic tempering of spices left

I ripped out a run of perfectly good upper cabinets once, entirely because of a photograph. It was one of those airy kitchens with a wall of open wooden shelves

My first kitchen island cost me the price of a secondhand dresser and one very stubborn Saturday. I’d wanted an island for years, assumed it was a wall-knocking, contractor-hiring project,

A few years ago I painted my kitchen cabinets a deep charcoal-teal that a magazine had crowned the colour of the year. For about six months I loved it. Then

My first apartment kitchen was so tight that I couldn’t open the oven door and stand at the sink at the same time. I measured it once out of sheer