why I'm in love with my kitchen

If I remember correctly from my literary studies, a well-written Realist text attempts to recreate a sensory experience for the reader. The best of these texts activate all five senses. My kitchen is not a work of fiction, but you might call it both real and Realist.

(I survived for months without a microwave.)

The countertop brings back memories of days gone by, with its gold marble finish and stains from various culinary escapades. In one corner rests my blender and a collection of herbal teas. The furnishings might convince you that I've just returned from a summer afternoon with Jan Brady. The white plates, daisy lemonade set, orange measuring kit, aqua tumblers, blue oven mits, various green items... dish towels and mixing bowls of every color. All of this framed by tiny yellow wall tiles and a burnt sienna range hood.

Something always smells. On a bad day, the whole house smells like something I can never find -- maybe it's the trash, maybe it's the sink drain, maybe it's something dead in the ceiling. I try to prevent this by cooking or baking at least three times a week. Last week I made cookies. Yesterday, Hamburger Helper. Today, the scintillating aroma of made-from-scratch brownies tempts me to jump straight into the oven (but then I remember Sylvia Plath... never mind).

Oh, I can taste them now. I hope the finished product is half as good as the batter! I think I'll pour myself a nice, cool glass of Ovaltine while I wait.

Beside the stove, my chicken-in-the-egg timer is ticking and spinning. Any minute now... well, about 5 minutes and 30 seconds from now... the baby chick will scream, and that gooey chocolate creation will emerge from its 325-degree womb. 

I slip my hand into an oven mit, and place two potholders on the counter. I tap my foot on the linoleum. Almost time. Almost. Almost. I can already feel the phenylethylamine, the endorphines... 

If there ever was any doubt, one bite settles it: I'm in love with my kitchen.