One of the first things I noticed when I came to Rich’s house (now my house) for the first time was the kitchen. The salmon-colored cabinets and orange carpet were hard to miss. The kitchen was a time capsule—frozen in 1955. The most impressive part was that (almost) everything worked—it was a fully-functioning kitchen, despite how it looked.
I embraced that kitchen for over six years. I never worried about cutting on the countertops—scratching them was the least of my concerns. I wasn’t diligent about scrubbing the cabinets like I should have—because I knew eventually they would all be torn out. I really did want a new kitchen, and I would often find myself scrolling Pinterest past all the ‘farmhouse’ kitchens—kitchens nowhere near any farms. But I didn’t push hard to get a new kitchen because I knew how long the process would take—and I was anxious about making so many decisions. What if I picked something I hated, but then I was stuck with it for the next 50 years? It all felt too overwhelming.
But this past fall we started moving forward with our plans. We picked the appliances and cabinets, then the countertops and flooring. The decisions felt just as daunting as I had imagined—but we took it one decision at a time and before Christmas we had everything picked out.
On January 19th we emptied the kitchen and moved out of the house. I stood in the kitchen for one last time, knowing the next time I saw the kitchen the cabinets would be ripped out, the carpet torn away. (I have more thoughts on all of this that I’ll share at some point.) I took a few final photos, then closed the door and walked away.
After 36 days (not that I was counting), we moved back home. The kitchen was one of the last remaining rooms in the house from the original build. There are still some elements to the house leftover from 1955, but we have put our stamp on every room in the house.
While it’s always felt like my home these past six and a half years—this kitchen really feels like mine.