The kitchen has always been the heart of our home. It is where you will usually find me. There is sourdough rising on the benchtop; yoghurt and kefir fermenting in their glass jars and a pot of sauce bubbling on the stove. The wide timber bench, salvaged from some felled jarrah in a paddock nearby, is where the boys come to knead playdough and paint. And eat of course. We do a fair bit of that.
Our kitchen is in what was originally the back verandah of our weatherboard workers cottage, with its sloping timber roof line still in evidence. It links the old part of the house with the new, and when we moved in was a dark and rather cramped space resplendent in pine and a patchwork of tiles in many hues. We punched a hole through the ceiling and put in as wide a skylight as we could, through which the light now pours year round, bouncing off the white walls, ceiling and tiles.
We kept it simple. White cupboards with wrought iron handles, to complement the many hand crafted fixtures around the house. And timber benchtops in keeping with the wide floorboards in every room. A couple of thrifted light fittings, a lick of chalkboard paint and the transformation was complete. It is a small but practical space that works so well. Nothing is more than a step or an arm's reach away. And behind those cupboard doors hides a walk-in pantry such as I have longed for for many a year.