Cheap ‘n’ Cheerful Kitchen Makeover

One thing I’ve gleaned from obsessively watching real estate TV shows is that agents are quite fond of selling hesitant buyers on ugly, dated kitchens by saying, “All you need to do is paint the cupboards and change the hardware and you would have a brand new kitchen!”

They make it sound like it’s only slightly more time and energy consuming than picking up a carton of milk. Yeah, no.

I did kind of know what I was getting myself into, thanks to the detailed steps of this article at This Old House. I also figured that it would take twice as long as I thought. And, after one sleepless night, I now know that the first coat of a dark colour always looks like crap and not to freak out – the second (and third) coats do get progressively better.

But, like anything worthwhile, the end result is fantastic! Once my aches and pains were gone, I immediately forgot how much work I did. The teal ended up taking 3 coats, 4 if you include the tinted primer. I found out that I’m pretty good at painting and it’s true – the right brush really does makes all the difference. I splurged and bought good ones – this paint job is supposed to make me feel like I don’t have to gut and renovate my kitchen any time soon.

It took me several months to figure out exactly what colours I wanted to use in here. When my idea to use teal first popped up,  I had trouble visualizing it and couldn’t find anything like it online or in magazines. I grabbed several paint chips in that colour range and took my time picking the best one. I decided that only the lower cabinets should be dark teal in order to balance out our heavy mahogany dining table. I chose to do the rest of the kitchen in the same pale cream that runs through the rest of the main level.

Picking out cabinet hardware was FUN. I leafed through decorating magazines to get ideas for handles that I liked and ended up with some great drawer pulls and cupboard handles from Lee Valley Tools. As happy as I am with the paint job, the hardware really finishes the kitchen nicely. Props to Jeff for helping me paint, trusting me on the colour choice (even during the horrid first coat stage) and replacing the hardware.

before

after

Goodbye, Sofa.

This is harder than I thought it would be. As I write this, my sofa and I are spending our last week together. The years have not been kind to my old friend, and it’s time for Sofa to go to that big rec room in the sky.

Much like Homer Simpson, I consider Sofa to be a member of the family – on par with TV and possibly Dishwasher. Even though we used to move often, Sofa was always there for me. I’m not truly home for the evening until I’ve flopped onto Sofa. In fact, I have to make a pact with myself not to sit on Sofa until I’ve done all my household tasks for the day, otherwise, game over. When I’m out somewhere, tired, uncomfortable and want to go home, Sofa is what’s on my mind. Or possibly Bed, Sofa’s only true competition.

Sofa has been a silent, supporting player to countless naps, tv shows, movies, gab fests, Hockey Nights in Canada, laptop sessions, books and magazines, as well as the odd sick day or hangover. The cats love Sofa too, meaning I often have to displace one in order to lounge.

I have been dragging my heels while looking for a replacement, but the time for procrastination has passed. Sofa is a bit of an eyesore these days – faded,  threadbare, stuffing exposed, club soda stains from cleaning up cat barf. As much as I love Sofa, I do wonder what my newer friends and visitors must think. Once upon a time Sofa was black – the blue side of black, which over the years meant constant, lively debates. Was Sofa dark, dark blue or black? I always held out that Sofa was black. Not the darkest, inkiest black in the world, but black nonetheless. I was always in the minority, but I knew I was right.

Sofa may not look like much, but my god Sofa is comfortable. I even wrote to Bemz.com at one point, asking if they’d ever consider creating a slipcover for Sofa, whose IKEA name is “Ellne”. They kindly but regretfully wrote back to me, promising to let me know if they ever do make one.

I tried, Sofa. I really did, but I feel like I’ve failed you, somehow. I don’t even have space in my own basement for you, that’s how much I’ve let you down. I thought we’d go the distance – thought you’d be with me forever. Sorry, Sofa.

My headstone won’t say “She kept a neat house”.

I’m sure most of my friends think I’m neat. And I suppose I am, compared to truly messy types. It helps that I am not a pack rat.

It’s just that I have a hard time with the simplest of tasks – putting something away when I’m done with it. When I do find the energy to have a crazy burst of neatening, I’m always awestruck by how little time it actually takes. These bursts usually coincide with the prospect of having family or friends to visit – having people over becomes a deadline, dramatic tension for getting things done. I’m sure I’m not alone.

I tell myself, and it’s probably true, not just a rationalization, that two people with full time jobs and creative projects can’t be expected to be as neat as a pin. In fact, there’s a wonderful air of possibility in our house when Jeff has his recording gear out, or I’ve covered all table surfaces with books and magazines – either researching an article, getting ideas for a house project or hell, just doing my homework. Don’t even get me started on what my desk looks like.

I used to feel bad about the state of my house and always resolved to get better at it. I think I still do, but I’m trying to let it go. “Neaten desk” has been an item on my to-do list for months. But I always find what I need, eventually. I do believe housework has its place and keeps life running smoothly. Over the years I’ve trying to fine-tune what, for me, actually needs to be done and how often.
To me, home is a place to rest, cook, eat, dream, laugh, cry, rant, try new things, revel in the familiar, scratch the cat’s chin, watch tv, read, warm up, cool down, chill out. And that’s the stuff I remember – not whether there was a toothpaste blob on the corner of the sink for a few days.

In which we discover the importance of our home fund

One of the first things we did after we moved into our house last summer was to create a new budget. We had been told by everyone, some smugly, some with resignation, that owning a house means that there will always be something that needs to be fixed or have money poured into it. Not ones to be negative, we nevertheless started a ‘home improvement fund’ with a fixed amount automatically transferred over on paydays. We weren’t sure when we’d need it, and the first eight months in the house passed smoothly enough.

Well, we’ve needed to dip into it sooner than we thought. After a spring and summer full of surprises, we’re now hardened veterans to this whole home improvement thing. Let’s see. Since April 2009 we’ve had to replace old lead water pipes, the boiler that was original to the house, the roof (shredded by a hailstorm), the kitchen window (same hailstorm), the fridge (stopped working and cost less to replace than to fix) and have arranged to get some cracks in our exterior bricks re-pointed by a mason.

As the problems and costs piled up, so did our panic, at first. But life won’t let you stay in a freaked out state for long, and soon the only sane thing to do, once some extra money was secured, was to get excited about all the new stuff we were getting. We had fun choosing a new shingle colour for the roof, a different style of window for the kitchen, a fridge we like better, and we’re happy that our water supply is a little healthier now that it’s not laced with lead anymore.

We noticed an interesting side effect to all these surprises. We had confronted our biggest fear of being home owners. We had lots of reasons to put off buying a house for years, but what scared us the most and kept us out of the market was exactly this kind of string of bad luck. We’re much calmer now that we’re not waiting for the shoe to drop, but having said that, we really don’t want any more surprises!

Root Cellar DIY

This was our first real DIY project. Our home inspector strongly recommended that we tear out the “walk-in” closet that a previous owner had unwisely converted the root cellar into. By the time we moved in, the mold was visible on the drywall and we had to tear everything out asap. I didn’t mind. Root cellars are awesome.

Before. See the mold on the back wall?

I’m not sure what they were thinking when they decided to build this. Root cellars are meant to be damp, with exposed brick and a concrete floor. It isn’t even part of the house – it’s the space underneath the steps leading to the front door. Trying to make it into a finished room was destined to fail.

So, after hitting the build-it centre and getting crowbars, work gloves, masks and safety goggles, we dove into some sweet, sweet demolition. I had no idea how much fun smashing and ripping out drywall could be! Underneath the drywall was a thin layer of styrofoam and what was quite possibly clingfilm as a stand-in for vapour barrier.

Safety first – especially when dealing with mold.

When we were done, it looked a lot more like a root cellar should look like.

Brick starting to be revealed after some seriously fun “smashy smashy”.

Almost done – just a nasty carpet to remove.

Next, we needed shelving. We went to our favourite swedish store – we had previously decided to stop buying so much stuff there, but they really are brilliant at shelving. We ended up with a section filled with bottle racks and lots of open shelving. There are even wire baskets that clip underneath the shelves for smaller things like onions. Little plastic feet fit on the shelf posts to protect them from the floor and keep the wood from rotting.

Lots of room for wine and uh, roots!

I’m pleased at how well it turned out – satisfied that the finished project matched up nicely with what I had pictured before we started.

Homebody

The day we moved in to our house, one of our friends said “now that you’re here, I think you’re going to spend a lot more time at home”. I agreed, but I had no idea how true her words would be.
In the past we lived in a number of small apartments, and it never took long for cabin fever to set in. We were always out for walks, a bite, a pint, a coffee, a movie. Now we sometimes get through entire weekends with a trip to the grocery store as our only outing. I suppose we’re nesting and eventually we’ll snap out of it, but in the meantime, it’s nice.

Four Month Anniversary at our House

Back in February, one of the first things our real estate agent asked us to do was close our eyes, picture ourselves settled in our dream home and tell him what we saw. Practical as ever, and aware of the fact that house hunting could take months, I looked ahead to Christmas. Yes, I most definitely wanted to celebrate Christmas in my own home.
Now I’m sitting in my living room, contemplating Christmas dinner. We’ve made plans to get a real Christmas tree in a couple of weeks. I might even brine a turkey, thanks to Nigella Lawson’s Feast. A close friend is lending us his piano for the forseeable future. Depending on its arrival, I might even have time to re-learn and pound out some Christmas carols – something I haven’t done for close to twenty years. We have a new dining table, one that comfortably seats six, eight if we put in the leaf. All in all, it promises to be a very christmassy Christmas, especially with family coming from far away.

Heather’s House of Dreams

Anne’s House of Dreams is my favourite book in the Anne of Green Gables series. Ok, those of you who aren’t female and/or on the unsentimental side might be rolling your eyes right now, but somehow the title of the book has stuck with me through the years. As a young girl, I often thought about my own house of dreams and never quite stopped believing that I could have it. I’m just glad I had no idea how long it would take!

Over the last ten years in Toronto, we’ve rented apartments (hoo boy, have we rented apartments!) out of necessity. For most of the decade, the idea of home ownership, especially of the single detached dwelling variety, was laughable. I thought I had to adjust my dreams, pare them down and buy a condo. A couple of years ago we even went so far as to rent a condo, just to see if it was a good fit.

Well…it isn’t. Hermetically sealed in, at a steady year-round 23 degrees Celsius. Our only view is of a looming apartment building south of us, blocking the sun for most of its daily appearance. We still wonder what made us choose this place. If I recall, we just wanted a place that was clean, private and rather soundproof. We had a lot of projects on the go, wanted to walk to work, and thought we didn’t care that this ‘box’ had all the atmosphere of a scaled down 905 McMansion. The only joy I find here? Using the ensuite laundry. Whoever designs these places has no soul, no sense of the fitness of things. The low point? My cold cucumber soup, with cooling mint and yogurt, lost of all of its reason for being. We ate it mournfully in our dim, clammy condo one August afternoon. It should have been enjoyed in the soft evening air in a backyard – refreshing us after a scorching summer day.

My yearning for a proper house and garden grew and grew. Soon I found it difficult to read any of my chattier cookbooks – the ones that blissfully recount their outdoor meals, the herbs and produce that they grow themselves. I let my subscriptions to decorating magazines lapse – it was just too hard. I found I didn’t have the heart to write about my favourite recipes anymore; what was the point if I couldn’t take proper amateur photos of my creations in a kitchen that never gets natural light? Everything just looked, well, orange. It only reinforced my craving for a kitchen filled with sunlight.
Early this spring, we finally started our house hunt. Never one to do things halfway, not only had I written a list of “needs” and “wants”, I clung to my long held vision of what I thought my home could be. That, along with an experienced, perceptive and proactive real estate agent, proved to be unstoppable. He spent a lot of time talking to us before showing us a single house, and paid close attention to what interested us and what left us cold as we looked at houses together. It wasn’t long before he left us an excited voicemail – simply saying, “I found YOUR house”. He may just be my favourite man, next to my husband.

Much like true love, they say that when you walk into your house, you just know it. It’s true. I loved it the moment I walked in, on that dreary, snowy March day. I love it more each time I visit, and can’t wait to move in. I am supremely happy with the tour I’ve had of the back yard. I had hoped that there would be a lilac bush in my yard, and it is there. The seller hopes the jasmine will still be in bloom when we make another visit this coming Saturday. I almost don’t know if I can handle it. So much green, so many flowers, after the unrelenting pavement and concrete of the last few years.

And the kitchen? You just wait and see if I don’t get my food photography mojo back.

How Much Kitchen Stuff Do You Really Need?

You should read this great article by New York Times columnist Mark Bittman – A No-Frills Kitchen Still Cooks.

As for me, thanks to not having much storage space or an unlimited amount of spending money (who does?), I’ve built up my modest kitchen collection slowly. As much as I would love to be seduced by name brands and houseware stores filled with tempting gadgets big and small, I’ve always asked myself “Do I really need this?” and “Where am I going to put it?”

It seems that the people I know fall into two broad categories. Those who get on with cooking, several times a week, no matter how basic their kitchen, and those who fantasize about becoming a fantastic cook – someday, when they get a huge kitchen, with six gas burners,  a convection oven and a central island for prep. Oh, and a Kitchen-Aid stand mixer – the new status symbol for the kitchen.

One of my favourite, although slightly bitchy, things to do when I’ve been invited to the wedding of a mere acquaintance (can you smell the gift grab?) is pore over their registry. This is the place that, no doubt egged on by salivating housewares department salespeople, brides and grooms-to-be can really let loose. Fantasy replaces the reality of cooking, and nowhere else is this more evident, despite the actual level of cooking skill and ability of those on the receiving end.

On the other hand, some of the best home cooking I’ve ever eaten has been produced in the tiniest apartment kitchens. The cooks I’m thinking of have used every inch of space in their kitchen in the most efficient way possible. Calm, matter of fact and uncomplaining, they use their standard issue, apartment-sized electric stove, pots and pans picked up in Chinatown, and wash dishes in five minute bursts to make more room on their tiny counters.

I fall between those two categories. Procrastination can be incredibly irresistible if you feel the need to acquire all sorts of gadgets before committing to producing something creative – this can be true of photography, music, visual arts, as well as cooking. “I can’t make that Thai green curry until I have a food processor”. However, although my kitchen has received a slight upgrade over the years thanks to my slow but steady collection of kitchen stuff and renting a condo with all the modern conveniences rather than a crappy decades-old apartment, the amount of cooking I do has not changed at all.