Being Open

Did something impulsive the other day. Walked in my kitchen, surveyed the cabinets and asked my long-suffering husband if he’d remove the doors from some of them for me.

Sure, he said. So he did.

At first the effect of all that nakedness was disconcerting. I felt as though I were peeking in someone’s window. So much openness! Too much, I secretly thought at first. I didn’t share my misgivings with Jim. I really wondered if I could deal with it. After calming down a bit, the second thought was just as unsettling: a little more order was in order. Actually a whole lot more order.

I began prettying up the view. Jumbles were separated and either placed side by side, or relegated to another area. Little-used bowls and glasses moved to a different location; paring down the number of objects so one didn’t get jittery just looking up.

Some reworking: propped saucers upright against the cabinet back so everyone can enjoy their pretty faces; ditto, big platters on the shelf below, and situated black dishes at intervals to “anchor” the display. Surrounding the stove, metal mixing bowls, Pyrex measuring cups and miscellaneous stuff stared back at me. Not suitable for confrontation by the public. So I switched out bowls for glass canisters of flours, sugars (brown and white), an old coke bottle with coarse pepper therein, a lovely tall green bottle of sunflower oil and the wonderful rusty-red hue of Old Bay seasoning making a plain bottle special.

It’s kind of like having a limb removed though. You still think it’s there. I don’t know how many times I’ve tried to close cabinet doors, and grabbed air; I even ducked a couple of times so one of those phantoms wouldn’t deck me.

I’m slowly getting used to my “new” kitchen. Now, however, I see what else must be done because the holes left by hinge nails aren't attractive. I’ll have to sneak up on Jim one of these days and broach that little subject. He thinks his job is done and he’s gloriously free to deer hunt to his heart’s content. Poor guy.