Remodeling

They came to measure for our new kitchen countertops this past week.

This remodel has been five years in the making. First, we had to save the money so we could pay cash. Second, we were waiting for Scout to pass on, so that the remodeling wouldn't be hard on him. Third, we were trying to make up our minds how long we will live in this house yet, because that determined how much we would spend and how much we would remodel.

Well, the money is all there and then some. Scout crossed the rainbow bridge over a year ago. We have decided we will probably be here another five years or so. We have scaled back from a total gut job with a price tag of $50K to a much more reasonable refresh of under $15K.

The decisions have been made, the money has been paid, and the process has begun. We are keeping the oak cabinets and having them reconditioned. But I am getting quartz countertops, tile backsplash, and new laminate wide wood plank flooring.

When we first moved into this house over fourteen years ago, I thought this would finally be my dream kitchen - a farmhouse kitchen, with a large white farmhouse sink, granite countertops, natural stone backsplash, chef grade appliances, and dark wide-planked wood floors. Fourteen years ago, I enjoyed cooking much more than I do today.

It was our intention to replace these countertops much earlier than is actually happening. I have never liked them from the start. Too light, to textured, too chipped, too dated. But, once you start thinking about replacing one thing, you realize then you need to replace another thing, so we did the easiest thing - nothing. Well, nothing time is over and it is time for something, a lot of somethings.

As I waited for the countertop measurers to come, I began to really think about these countertops. How many friends and family have sat in these chairs over the years, sharing stories while meals were prepared. How many years of newspaper ink is ground into the countertop. How many meals I have produced here, always complaining about the bad lighting. The dog paws that have rested on the edge of the counter, Scout was a bad one for counter surfing. All these memories made me get out my camera and take some photographs to document our past. Our past with this kitchen, with these countertops, with these chairs. The good thing is that we have at least five years to make memories with the new kitchen.

End Notes

Glen and I finished our Whole 30 food challenge strong. And then right afterwards we went away for the weekend.




Other than wine, and trying a couple things that had been on the do not eat list for January, we found ourselves mostly sticking to our Whole 30 way of life. We are now exploring a mostly Paleo lifestyle.  The one downside of Whole 30 was the lack of a social life while on it, gatherings and fellowship involve food. We are happy to be able to dine out again, just trying to make smarter choices.

I briefly hit a brick wall with my 365 photography project this past week - Day 156. I really, really wanted to quit. I was uninspired, there was nothing to photograph anywhere. But then I thought - 155 days in, I can't quit. So I took a photograph of a dictionary page with the word light on it. It was boring, but somehow that light got in me, I picked up the camera the next day and started photographing my kitchen.

The Drive-In

The summer of 1974 I turned six years old, and at that point remained, blissfully, an only child. But within my mother grew my soon-to-be baby brother. This would be my last summer of blissful delight.

My mother worked second shift at the local hospital as a medical transcriptionist. Our mornings started slow, but our special time of day together was lunchtime. Most often those lunches were spent at home, sharing bowls of Campbell's Chicken and Stars soup, or grilled cheese sandwiches made with Kraft American cheese on square slices of Wonder white bread, and grape Cool-aid to drink in plastic Tupperware cups.

Once a week we would get groceries and have lunch out. In 1974 there were mostly local diners and greasy spoons in our town. We had one fast food chain restaurant, Burger King, located downtown next to the movie theatre. I loved to sit on the orange, vinyl topped, chrome swivel stool at the window counter eating my Whopper Junior, and crispy, heavily salted french fries, watching the people come and go from the theatre.

But my favorite place to eat lunch was the Dog n Suds drive in. The concept of a drive in restaurant fascinated me. You couldn't go inside - Car Hops Only, you ate in your car. The menu was on a stand next to your car, you pressed a button and spoke into a silver metal speaker to place your order.

I would sit in excited anticipation in the passenger bucket seat of my mom's metallic blue, 1973 Ford Mustang, while we decided what to have for lunch. Shortly after placing our order, the car hop would come out bearing a red rubberized tray laden with Charco Cheeseburgers and "World Famous" Coney dogs, heavily salted french fries, and frosty mugs filled with Dog N Suds root beer, and hook the tray onto my mom's partially rolled down car window. I would carefully unfold two large paper napkins and spread them over my lap, praying no ketchup or mustard from my cheeseburger would spill onto my perfectly matched Garanimals outfit.

Our town no longer has a Dog n Suds drive in, and hasn't in many, many years. A few of them still exist. On a recent adventure day I happened to be near one, and thought it would be fun, for old times sake, to drive in and have lunch. Unfortunately my adventure day was on a Tuesday.

At first I was extremely disappointed, but as I stood in the empty parking lot, I realized what I wanted wasn't the food, but the opportunity to photograph a piece of my history and to tell the story.

I never liked root beer anyway, except with ice cream in it.

The Farmers Market

When I was in later elementary school my dad took up a new hobby - beekeeping. He was already skilled in the art of woodworking and woodcarving, those hobbies helped to pass the winter months, but at heart my dad is an outside man. Beekeeping gave him that outdoor hobby to occupy him spring, summer and fall. My parents live on twenty-three acres of country delight, so there was plenty of room for a handful of bee hives.

It took a couple of years to get honey output up so that it supplied more than just our family of four. By the time production was up to full speed, I was in middle school and more than old enough to help. I spent many late summer afternoons in the basement with my dad; we would take turns hand cranking the honey extractor. While I was turning I would watch the honey spin out of the hive frames hitting the cylindrical metal sides of the extractor and slide down towards the exit spout, where it waited to be released into new, white five gallon pails. We would bottle and distribute from the bounty in the five gallon pails.

Once we had the supply, we had to figure out a way to create demand. This was the late 1970's and early 1980's, the eat healthy and organic lifestyle had not emerged yet. But there was a new venture in our downtown on Saturday mornings - The Farmers Market - a place for small local farms to sell the excess from their crops without having to man a roadside stand ten hours a day.

I remember getting up at five a.m. so we could be in line at the market by six. In those days, spaces were rented on a first come, first serve basis.

I always felt a bit like the Beverly Hillbillies as my dad and I pulled into our space in his fire-engine red Chevy truck, and set up our sunshine yellow, polka-dot pool umbrellas for shade. I would then set out the Christmas red and bottle-green boat cushions as our seats on the tailgate. But then we unloaded my dad's masterpiece - a handcrafted barn board table with the words Honey For Sale engraved into the front apron. The pints, quarts and gallon jugs of our honey, the sun lighting up the liquid gold inside, looked amazing on that table.

Most Saturdays we made enough profit to stop and get a Big Mac, fries and a coke on the the way home. But making money was never really the point of it, I got to spend priceless Saturday mornings with my dad; sitting on our boat cushions, eating store bought cookies, and drinking lemonade out of a big silver thermos. Those are some of my happiest memories from childhood and I would never trade a moment of them.

I still go to the Farmers Market every week, but as a customer instead of as a vendor. The Farmers Market is the trendy thing to do now, everybody wants fresh fruit, vegetables and unprocessed, raw honey.

Now I wander the aisles with my daughter, shopping for plants, picking out fresh strawberries, selecting fresh flowers for the dining room table. We stop every week at our favorite coffee booth for 16 oz. cups of the flavor of the week. We chat with the guy behind the coffee pots, sharing bits of our morning thus far.

My dad, at 81, still keeps his bees. He doesn't need to go to the Farmers Market anymore, those early days lead to many repeat and loyal customers. Now he has more demand than supply. But if he did decide to go back to the market, he would still have a very willing helper.