final meals in an old kitchen

This old kitchen—modest in every way—has served us well during the past twenty years or so. It has held up under first-book launches, client dinners, fundraisers, meals with friends, literary salons (of sorts), spaghetti on the crowded days, elaborations on days when there was time, a surprise birthday party for my father, many meals for my parents and in-laws, countless conversations, and one single crowded Thanksgiving, which I remember with more sadness than joy. My guests were almost always accustomed to more glamorous environments, and more elegant menus, than I could provide. We have done what we could, this kitchen and I. And hoped the conversations compensated for all other shortcomings.

But it is time to go. To replace the wobbly electric oven (on such a slant that the frying eggs run like sprinters to the back of the pan and coagulate there, in a long white/yellow line) with a gas stove. To exchange peeling formica for something that shines. To get a dishwasher that makes the dishes cleaner when they come out, as opposed to encrusted with wrong hues.

Nothing will be bigger, but everything will be sweeter. And so today, following wonderful holiday meals, we begin to prepare this kitchen for its end, and new beginning. My brother-in-law has helped sort and consolidate spices. I've riffled through the tax papers early. We have rid ourselves of the broken ice cream scoop and the chipped green stirring spoon and the spotted salad tongs.

There is something like nostalgia in all of this.

And also anticipation.