Brushing my teeth tonight, I look at the bathroom doorway and notice the lilac paint covering textures of plaster, wood and change. I painted that. Still looks like thick cream tinged with hope.
So much has changed. Then, I was pregnant, hopelessly caught in nesting urges to make our house prettier and cleaner than it was.
So much has stayed the same. Now, the house is still a work of layers. Grandmothers’ old furniture, dirty Ikea couch, art works wherever they last found a nail and Oliver’s organisational fetishes (takeaway boxes contain the bath plug, my blue scarf and magnets in a very specific sequence) bustle into place in a house that’s really too small to manage so well.
How could this person make a business that strives for such order and clarity as Wandering Cooks?
Whenever I imagine it, Wandering Cooks sparkles. Every part knows what it is and why it’s there. Every person knows their job, loves their work and carries out their responsibilities as if the systems behind them have been programmed into their souls.
Is Wandering Cooks the antidote to my house?