I have a Brooklyn studio apartment the size of a shoebox, yet I insist on subscribing to Zooba, i.e. the Book of the Month Club. Every single month I indulge myself with just one more cookbook, while my shelving unit sags under the weightiness of it all, and my other possessions slowly get elbowed out by jacketed hardcover editions with 4-color photos. As a friend once said, they are porn for foodies. Mmmmm.
Had I ever invited you to visit my kitchen, you would understand why this is comical, delusional even. The standing area of my kitchen measures 3x6'. I have a 2-foot long, 8-inch deep "countertop" consisting of a warped wooden board nailed up some 20 odd years ago by a desperate renter.
It's very student-like, and not terribly functional. If I want to cook, I pull out a folding table to have a bit of workspace. Did I mention that I am a full grown woman? At my age, my mom had four children, one of whom was fifteen.
I've recently undertaken some renovation to my kitchen, bathroom, and life in general. I registered HOTY a few months ago and I was not entirely sure what to do with it, but I think I've found my point of entry. I'll start with cookbooks and take it from there.
It might not be what normal folks call growing up, but it's definitely something.
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