three years, the first having died during the great heat of 1996. It's been positioned in such a way that the right produce drawer can never be removed and can be only halfway opened, allowing projects worthy of the Westinghouse science prize to blossom monthly.
The floor is yellow. Correction: It is supposed to be yellow. I do not know what the best floor color for families with young children is. However, I am now an authority on what is the worst.
The cabinets are, quite simply, the ugliest, least practical and yet apparently expensive cabinets ever produced. They are narrow and extremely tall, meeting NBA height requirements but not mine. They have a sort of neo-Swedish white birch finish that has been at war with the quasi-Byzantine pewter handles since their first meeting in the 1970s.
Anyway, one night sitting Rembrandt-level darkness, having perhaps a glass of wine too many, my husband an I look at each other and realize that we live in this kitchen virtually all our waking
hours in the house. Life is simple too long to lead it shrouded in such ugliness.
"Let's do it," I say.
"Ugggh, OK."
So all of this can be blamed on that third glass.
Rule No. 1: Don't hire your friends.
We are in the enviable position of having a number of architects as friends and relatives. On the whole, architects are an inspiring, creative, overworked, underpaid, and better-dressed group of individuals than most. As home-remodeling virgins, in a state of blissful ignorance, we asked an architect friend for advice on how to proceed: Should we hire a kitchen firm, use a contractor, or get an architect? How do we plan? How do we proceed?
Next thing we know, he's moving furniture and taking measurements.
"Did we just hire him?" I ask after he leaves.
"Looks that way"
OK, Rules No. 2 and 3: Fix your budget. Set your perimeters.
We say to the architect, here is our
