In less than ten days all our precious belongings will be packed up, the boxes loaded into a large metal container rigged for rail and trans-Atlantic travel. Many of the items will go painlessly: high school yearbooks, laundry baskets, Christmas ornaments and sleeping bags. These will come out on the other side without fanfare and get tucked into just the right spot for future use or reference. Bidding farewell to my kitchen, however, will be an entirely different story.
I like to cook almost as much as I like to eat. I keep my knives sharp, my spices at my fingertips, my herb garden watered, and my cooking utensils within arm's reach. For a minimum of six weeks I'll be sipping tea from someone else's cups and cooking in a kitchen only described as 'fully equipped' by the most primitive of bachelors. Knives will wobble in their shanks. Paper-thin pots will serve a family of two modest eaters. Spoons will be either too big or too small. Bowls, too. I admit this is not very optimistic or gracious of me, but it's my 'thing.' I don't need a big kitchen, just mine.
Slowly but surely we've eaten our cupboards bare. Here's the meal plan of the week, carefully orchestrated to make the most of what's left in the fridge and larder:
Pork chops with homemade applesauce,
potatoes and green beans.
(See ya, veggies!)
(adios rice noodles)
Souvlaki and Salad
Macaroni and Cheese
(for Mouse's birthday dinner)
Risotto for the grown-ups
Pasta mish-mash à la Jamie Oliver
(tuna, rigatoni, tortellini, canned tomatoes,
cinnamon, lemon juice, fresh basil, hot peppers, etc.)
After that, there won't be much left. Move over Mother Hubbard. Make room for the Mighty's.