Dear Kitchen,
I did a whole lot of growing up in you. I cannot count how many cookies, cakes, and pies I made using your admirable amenities. I’ve probably eaten a good five thousand meals in you and hand washed the corresponding dishes that couldn’t go in the dish washer. Kitchen, you of all entities know that is a modest estimate. Then all of a sudden, I go away to college, and boom, Mom remodels you. I don’t know where anything goes anymore. I’m a stranger in my own home. Sure, sure, you look all nice and shiny with your dark wood cabinets and matching stainless steel appliances – very elegant, by the way – but I know you’re up to something. You’re confusing everyone; shelves exist where they shouldn’t, appliances have changed positions. You even have a warming drawer for hors d’eouvres. That is un-American. And I don’t like the oven. It turns off when the timer goes off. To get that lasagna perfect, or to get the gooey tenderness of those cookies just right, the oven must remain at 400 degrees Fahrenheit, not pass by with a paltry 320! At least the pantry is marginally untouched, so that I can find a can of Chef Boyardee and make myself some ravioli. Now if only I can find the can opener…
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