When Kelly and I bought our first house together last August, I can’t say it was the kitchen that sold me. Sure, it is spacious, chock-a-block with wide drawers and deep cabinets and tall windows. The ceiling is high, wonderfully high in that old house way, but I can’t reach the smoke alarm even when I clamber onto a chair and stretch, dangerously, waving a dish towel wildly to stop the piercing screeching. There is a niche in one wall, handy for cookbooks, assorted tequilas and my growing collection of cake stands.

 The wallpaper, though, is terrible. Friends, it is textured. Scattered with drawings of herbs, their genus and species listed in script, which is why I suppose our bungalow’s previous owners thought made it oh-so-appropriate for a kitchen.

And then there was this oven.

A grayish green electric Frigidaire DeLuxe RDG-20S behemoth, circa 1970-something or other, this super-sized appliance in many ways is my kitchen. You can’t ignore it. You can’t pretend it’s not there. It’s prepetually too hot, a good 50 degrees warmer than what I turn to on the temperature dial. Despite its girth, the oven is narrow, so cookie sheets and roasting pans must go in vertically (that tempting section on the left is not, most unfortunately, another oven. It’s a storage drawer). The rear, right burner doesn’t work. Neither does the clock. If you baking nerds are curious, a month-long flurry of Christmas cookies, 20-plus pounds of butter and much cursing taught me that it will burn the beejesus out of anything on a darkish sheet unless I am careful to use parchment paper and make a few sacrifies to the Frigidaire gods.

But the color…it makes me so happy. And there is wood-paneling, I suppose to match your 1970s station wagon.

You can’t see it very well in the photo, but our house’s previous owners painted the kitchen trim the exact same shade as the oven. So you see I’m not the only one fascinated with it. They also left behind the instruction booklet, yellowed and faded and with a deep fat frying chart that includes suggested temperatures for croquettes and fritters. I suspect my five-year warrenty has expired, but this thing was constructed by General Motors. They build cars, friends!

So, we have grown to love each other. It’s probably entirely one-sided. But, maybe, just maybe, we are ready for bigger commitments. Like bread.

This blog is more an outlet, you see, for my food prattlings, rather than the constant in person ear-bending you get from me about what is honestly just dinner.

Just dinner, right.

Welcome to the beginning. We’re off!