The fireplace has come down, brick by brick, and revealed the optical illusion that has duped the inhabitants of this house for over 40 years. Yes, a volume of bricks can inexplicably triple when demolished, only to lie in scattered disarray, smirking and dusty, on one's back patio for over 14 months.
I must admit Plywood has a certain Bohemian and rustic charm but only for 6 months. Anything beyond may amount to... giving up.
Complaints about the lack of counters or a stove is ever so bourgoise when there is that roaring camp stove and 1980's electric wok to keep the kitchen sizzling.
I am not bitter; in fact, I am rather sweet, in a sour type of way.
The renos that started last summer have crossed the line from temporary to our new reality. We haven't had a single dinner party (beyond the very good friends who are too soft-hearted to judge us for our reno squalor) in over a year, so food blogging has been swept, with the rusty nails, dry wall dust and wood splinters into the corner.
A martyr is noble; a whiner is annoying. We have not wasted way. We have moved beyond canned goods and microwave dinners to cooking in, around, and despite the detritus.
So I'm sweeping off the old blog with a duster in one hand and a spatula in the other. Steel-toed boots are the hottest new kitchen gadget.
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