My Kitchen

I often feel this is a test.  

As Mike and I toured the only 2 rental options available last February, I preferred the older of the two.  It had more character and hardwood floors. 

 

However, there were only 2 bedrooms, a dead mouse in the basement, no washer/dryer, undiscovered bats in the attic, and the kitchen was beyond small.  I figured I'd use my slow-cooker or grill for the majority of the meals.  It's no different than a camper kitchen.  The oven was disgusting and had a bluish-caked on coating covering the oven racks and grill grates.  Obviously unusable.  I clearly remember having a conversation with my mother-in-law about camping-style meals I could make in the kitchen.

 

That's when I discovered the miracle of cleaning over racks and grill grates with ammonia fumes in a plastic bag overnight. 

 

Whoa! 

 

Suddenly, I had my first gas oven and I swear I'm never turning back.

 

Yet somehow I'm able to cook real meals in my hideously small kitchen. 

Somehow I started a small business out of that kitchen. 

Somehow I've realized I must really love cooking to be doing what I'm doing in that kitchen.

 

That kitchen. 

 

My microwave is a mini-dorm size microwave.  My refrigerator is an old-school top freezer-scratch and dent model, and my countertops are nearly nonexistent. 

Which leads me to believe I haven't been alone in my endeavors. 

 

A certain image continuously pops into my mind as I scrounge for counter space holding hot pans and watch as the spices fall out of the cabinet for the gazillionth time.  That same image gives me a feeling of peace as well as a smile when I think of it.  I believe it's gotten me where I am.  Being a good cook isn't about how much space you have or having the best appliances. 

It's about passion.

 

I believe I owe my passion to the European woman in the photo below.  I look at the space and equipment she had to work with.  From what I hear, she was an outstanding cook. 

 

I also believe she's working with me as I prepare my soup baskets in my tiny kitchen... suggesting a pinch or this or a dash of that.  A sprinkle of this or a drizzle of that.  My passion was not given to me accidentally.  And I couldn't be more thankful for the gift.

 

My Grandma Jirus (Grandma Claussens' mom). 

AKA:  Grandma Cake