After a year of living in the tiniest shoe box of an apartment in New York City, I vigorously searched the entire borough of Manhattan for the perfect apartment. After weeks of walking, cab fares, subway rides and just jumping from one brownstone to another, i found one. It was a traditional walk up apartment in the Upper West Side. Rent controlled, brick walls, hardwood floors and the cutest bay window overlooking central park. It was perfect. Except for the kitchen.
Mind you, all New Yorkers know that the the hardest things to find in the city are as follows, based on the degree of difficulty:
#3 - JOB
#2 - Boyfriend/Girlfriend/Relationship
#1 - A Perfect Apartment
And I turned down this apartment.
When I was a kid, i found myself seeking refuge in the kitchen. Nope, not pigging out. Well sometimes. But more of just hanging out in the kitchen. For overly depressing situations, I somewhat find comfort in the rhythmic humming of the fridge. It seems like it soothes my innermost sorrows. When I moved to the US, I spent most of my nights in the kitchen during the times when I felt so alone or when I miss my friends and family back in the Philippines. The kitchen was never a stranger to me. No matter where I go, I'd seem to find a good friend in anyone's kitchen. But not in this so called New York kitchen. And i just couldn't live there.
In my most recent move. I found it harder to get to know my current kitchen. It seems like it didn't accept me right away and vice versa. It seems unwilling to offer its usual welcome. Even the fridge didn't care to offer me it's soothing melody. It took some time.
But recently, I made peace with my new kitchen.
I cooked for the first time. I prepared breakfast. Nothing fancy, just eggs and toast and some turkey ham. But it was the most delightful breakfast. It was like finding a long lost friend. I was happy to finally reconnect.
But tonight, like all good friends, my kitchen was brutally honest with me. After a long day at work, stripped off my work clothes and slipped into my pj's, I was eating some leftovers beside my newly polished stove, my new kitchen reminded me that I wasn't home yet. That this wasn't my home. And I felt alone.
I know, its kind of melodramatic. But it did feel that way. I was looking at the dining table and remembered all the great meals that my mom and dad prepared for me and my brother. How we'd always (always!) get together every Sunday after Church to just get a recap of the week and update each other of our lives. Even when we had the simplest of all meals, it was always a an awesome time eating with the family.
It would be nice to come home to a place I can call home. Hopefully soon!
(and yes, i was totally posing in that pic!)