Much To My Delight

Much To My Delight

Making a House a Home

We’ve been in our house exactly a month, and I’m still not used to the place. I’ve set up my little kitchen, ordered some furniture, bought houseplants, cooked dinner, drank too much coffee. I’ve been to all my neighborhood shops. I’ve even had my first official weekend guests. But still, when I come home from work at the end of the day and prop my feet up on the coffee table, I’m facing a completely different direction than I’m accustomed to. When I go to put my clothes away, I forget that my closet’s not in the kitchen anymore. I wonder when I will belong in here. Don’t get me wrong– I’m in love with the place. But I wonder how long it will take to feel like home.


I had this vision of what it would be like to meet the neighbors when I was a homeowner as opposed to a renter. I pictured people unhinging our front gate and walking up to our front door with fresh pies and big smiles. “Hey! I’m your next door neighbor. Welcome to the neighborhood!”. Alas, not surprisingly, I was the one to introduce myself on both sides. On my right is an older couple from Georgia (the country, not the city) who speak very little English. On the other side is a family from Tibet with grown children, whose first questions to me were “What are you going to do with your front yard?” and “How much did you pay for the house?”. I wanted to be like, “Nice to meet you! WHERE’S MY CASSEROLE?”.


Lots o’ mulch. I would like to put pavers or a little deck here, but first I would like to afford furniture. Vin likes the mulch. I don’t like the mulch. But I like saying the word mulch. It’s funny. Mulch. Mulch. Mulch.


Sleeping is the hardest. The first week I slept like a rock from sheer exhaustion and cooler weather. Now, it’s a different story. It’s been over 80 degrees with no air conditioning and now that we live above ground instead of a basement, I remember that heat rises. So I crack the window above my head to let some air in and remember that with windows comes both light and sound–the car alarm that rattles every two nights, the clang of the metal gate when the young guy next door comes home, the slamming of metal storm doors.  In 2001, I slept through a live performance of STOMP, which should qualify me as narcoleptic. But here, every tiny sound makes me stir. In the morning, when the harsh, bright sunlight beams down in an effort to replace my alarm clock, I notice new things. Have I always had this many freckles? How long have I had all these tiny lines on my hands? When did my husband get this hairy?

I baked cookies the other night using a recipe I used to consider foolproof and ended up broiling them because I can’t figure out how my new tiny oven works. I had to throw out all my cookie sheets and pans because none of them fit in this this svelte oven, designed for apartment living. The cookies were black on the bottom, raw in the middle, gooey on top and embarrassing throughout. Baking chocolate chip cookies is the trademark of happy homesteading and I messed them up three ways to Sunday. My former oven was old as Methuselah, wide as a tank and reliable as dirt. Burning cookies I nail every time felt like a small failure. It made me feel out of place and off my game.

Hey, I know I read into things way too much, but trust me, it was disappointing.

That night, we were still craving something sweet, so I suggested we hang in the front yard–the one we still haven’t figured out what to do with– and wait for the Mister Softee truck. The Mister Softee truck sells delicious soft-serve ice cream dipped in that mysterious chocolate that hardens and cracks before melting all over your face. They also make a mean black-and-white shake if that’s your bag. They drive around and around in circles throughout New York City neighborhoods playing a twerpy little jingle that gets stuck in your head and reminds you of summer’s magic.


Vin and I perched in the yard, quivering hands hovering over the clasp of our front gate like kids waiting for the mailman. The street was silent for a good five minutes until finally…”Da-da-da-da-da-da-da, duh-dunh-duh-dunh-dunh-da-da!” The truck was here! It was just around the corner! We grabbed a few dollars and ran down the street. The walk back felt like a victory lap.

I may not have nailed baking in my new oven, but I live in a place where if I just wait a few minutes, my dessert will come to me.

I can get used to that.



Our cute little kitchen in progress.


This kitchen came equipped with nice counter space and no storage. Lots of the kitchen stuff is in a dresser on the other side of the room, and Vin built me the open shelves so we’d have somewhere to stash our cups and bowls. I’m still trying to find a spot to keep my dinner plates though!

IMG_4841 The only way this shot could get more hipster is if I was wearing a big hat and blending cashew milk in a vitamix next to that bearded guy.

IMG_4832 Still getting used to recessed lighting. I find that everything looks different with overhead lights, including my face. Side note: I wish selfies existed when I was 23. That was a really good skin year.

Jenn P.

30-something psychotherapist. Loves cooking, hosting parties, exploring new places. Texan by birth. New Yorker by choice. Likes to tell little stories. Pull up a chair; I'll tell you one.

  • Sonya
    Your kitchen is so cute and looks very organized. I hope the house is starting to feel more like a home every day. Also, that’s a great selfie.