Hell's Kitchen

When we acquired the Crumbling Manse™ a decade ago we were pleased that most of its craftsman details had survived over the ninety years since the house went up as part of the post-earthquake building boom. The wainscoting and box beams and the pocket door in the front of the house were all intact, and had escaped the inexplicable vogue for painting these features over that had apparently seized the popular imagination at some point during the past century. All to the good. Toward the rear of the house it was a different story. There had been...questionable remodeling decisions made. We would explain to guests that clearly the kitchen had been reconfigured in the 1980s, and that the "Home Depot look" had been initially essayed, but that the option had ultimately been discarded as too pretentious and upscale. The kitchen, a large room, had been done up with the cheapest, shoddiest available counters and cabinets, sink and fixtures, and the feng shui was no great shakes.

The kitchen floor always felt a bit dicey in spots, as though it lacked the confidence that, for example, a sentient sidewalk might feel about its mission. It consisted largely of tiles, and many of these had cracked. Accordingly when the Life's Companion approached me ten days ago on this issue she had little difficulty securing my consent to rip up the shabby fractured old tiles and replace these with handsome new ones. Easy!

And ten days later I feel as though I've invaded the Soviet Union.

I had some initial concerns about the expense. These have been, ah, relegated. The dicey floor was scarcely there, so aged was the wood. The perimeter foundation at the rear of the house had some issues, and needed significant reinforcement. The shoddy cabinets had remained upright more out of respect for custom than from any structural integrity, and largely fell apart as they were moved. And you know what?

I'll pay anything. I just need the disruption to cease. I realize now that I'd be no good in a refugee camp.