Snow, Sleet, and a Bright Warm Kitchen

Today I unearthed myself from piles of laundry just in time to find three hopeful neighborhood children at the door. "Can we go sledding on the hill?" the chosen one asked, an older girl with red cheeks and nose.

I crushed their hopes by explaining that when the grass pokes through the snow, sleds create ruts in our soil. They could feel free to come back after a couple more inches fell. This morning on the way to pick up Merry from school at our friend Nancy's house, sleety, icy slush kicked off the windshield with every wipe of the blades, so the sad sledders are out of luck.

Though it may be gloomy and drab outside, my kitchen positively explodes with color: bright, traffic-cone orange and the yellow of a mellow afternoon. Sound insane? During the process you may have assumed correctly, but the final result (minus one final coat on one wall) pleases me immensely. Our kitchen positively glows, especially in the evenings. I ripped down most of my kitchen cabinets and now the whole room has taken on a different flavor--Tuscany, perhaps? I expect it's all too wild for Tuscany, though I have enjoyed immersing myself in Frances Mayes (the book is a good escape read--the movie so atrocious that I hide the cover of the book, which features a silly photo of Diane Lane, from strangers) and her endless house projects and rows of lavendar, olive trees, and roses.

Many thanks to my mother in particular, who tackled the kitchen with unparralled gusto; to my father who makes me incredibly nervous with loaded paintbrushes; to Martin who somewhat grumpily but still moved the antique winerack (among other things) to its new home in the kitchen.

I shall post pictures at some point, but I am waiting for completion.

A last note to those of you who know my family well: my father and mother just excepted a new post with World Concern in Washington State, and while we will miss the proximity to us (previously four hours), we wish them all love and best wishes in their new adventure in the rainforest land of good coffee, much water, and luscious gardens. As a side note, it turns out that my parents, in 35 years of marriage, have lived in at least 23 or 24 houses together. As Martin says, every family has an overarching narrative by which they identify themselves: our's must be gardening, or hobbit-holing; their's is adventure; what's your's?

PS. To my shame, the spell-check seems out of commission today--I feel as though the above post must be utterly riddled with mistakes, so be generous and overlook them, eh?