It has been three months and change since I had a kitchen of my own. I’ve thrown away, given away or stored every item that I didn’t absolutely have to have, moved seven times, cooked toast on stove eyes, washed dishes in the bathroom sink, learned that you can’t shop for bread and milk on Sunday, researched everything you can imagine about European appliances, realized belatedly that you can’t run an American food processor on a travel converter, repeatedly relit a pilot light at night while standing on a kitchen chair in a cold wind, been to IKEA five times, waited three weeks over IKEA’s promised delivery time, discovered how to prevent and clean calcium buildup from hard water, spent four days trying to figure out how to get an appliance website to take my credit card, sent emergency text messages in Italian to my long-suffering landlord, negotiated to have 1980s plaid chicken tiles painted over, taken an hour-and-a-half to boil water on a camping stove, learned dozens of Italian words, figured out how to light an Italian gas cooktop, eaten out, given myself a cut that probably needed stitches but didn’t get them, mopped up from burst pipes, hired an extra plumber, gotten yelled at by a deliveryman, taken dozens of cardboard boxes to recycling, sorted through a pile of extra parts and read instruction manuals to figure out whether I needed them, served my parents Thankgiving dinner from a kitchen without plumbing, swept up enough piles of sawdust to start my own sawmill, made unsuccessful attempts to purchase a vacuum cleaner to vacuum up said sawdust, and tripped switches more times than I care to count.
But now I have a kitchen. I am so utterly delighted. Now I think I’ll go have a moka and some Nutella on toast.