The kitchen -- she is feeneesh! Well, sorta. The moron twins ("We're not twins") still need to hook up the garbage disposal and finish this little shelf thing above the sink, but the rest of it is pretty much finito. Holy fucking shitballs, I never thought I'd live to see it. Witness the transformation...
I know it might not seem that dramatic to you, gentle blogee, but this is what we used to prepare our food on:
[I'll wait for you to stop yacking...]
And this is what we have now:
The counter alone was worth the whole ordeal. You know that Walt Whitman poem where he was practically talking about fucking that tree? That's kinda how I feel about our new counters. I'd like to see Walt Whitman fuck our counters. They're that incredible. And the stove is highly boinkable, as well. The smooth top, the sleek knobbage, the gaping, cavernous oven. The old lady and I prepared our first meal on "Jenny," our new Jenn-Air. It was simple yet delumptious -- Linguine with cauliflower in a red cream sauce:
Sure, I'll be floating some serious cauliflatus under the sheets tonight, but I'll revel in the warmth of its home-cookedness. It feels fantastic to ingest something that wasn't toasted, microwaved or spread between two slices of bread for a change. I can't wait to bake me some shit this weekend. A pie, perhaps? Cookies? A loaf or two? Maybe some bagelage? The baking world is my oyster. Hell, maybe I'll bake some oysters. Wait, does one bake oysters? I think they're usually steamed, actually. Doesn't matter -- the point is that I CAN bake oysters if I so choose. Look, forget the oysters! I don't know how I even got on the topic of shellfish. No one's gonna be cooking oysters this weekend, okay?!
Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a new faucet to buff.