This year’s form of cabin fever manifested itself in an irreversible desire to rid myself of the kitchen I had loved for two decades. Wise farmers ensure that lambs are born in the spring, and birthing a new kitchen in June seemed to make sense, too.
Moderate weather would be our ally.
We planned to stay outdoors on spray-painting days, reading and gardening. Since the entire contents of the kitchen would be boxed up and inaccessible, we would grill.
Evoking the words of Donald Rumsfeld, there are the known knowns, the known unknowns, and the unknown unknowns. We were about to become acquainted with category three.
Twenty-one days of rain in May, and an unseasonably cold June, presented its challenges. Our Waterloo, however, was medical. My husband, griller in chief, was taken out of action with an injured rotator cuff. Precluded from driving and unable to use his arm, he was not only benched from summer activities, but was facing surgery, too.
Then we lost our toaster.
The toaster had migrated to the laundry room, my staging area for some semblance of kitchen. When the microwave needed to move into the laundry room too, the toaster had to perch on top of the washer.
Its position was not ideal.
The next evening, during a vigorous washing machine spin cycle, the toaster, predictably, catapulted out of reach. I draw the line at crawling on top of appliances, but our painter, pinch hitting for my husband, did just that. The toaster relocated (because, why not?) to our bedroom.
Toast had become a construction diet staple, but once again, that toaster was nowhere to be found. In desperation. I texted our housekeeper – and learned, to my surprise, that she had thrown it out!
Releasing pent-up tension I didn’t know was there, I laughed long and hard. The toaster was a casualty of construction.
My sense of humor and appreciation for the absurd, however, was not. (c)
