Oh. Oh ho. Oh ho ho … hee hee, oh me, oh my. My goodness. Pardon me while I chortle like a hobbit who’s just found a honey hole.
The Brambles’ pantry is in operation. I spent yesterday putting together the shelving units (modern miracles, held together with pixie dust and sprite spittle) and this morning I finished decanting umptybajillion boxes onto them. Ladies and gentlemen, I have a PANTRY. Not a pokey little bolt-hole in the kitchen cabinets, no, a real room-sized pantry.
It’s not a big house, but it does have this odd room off the kitchen. Previous settlers–who had a large number of children–used it as a bedroom. With only one live child to my name, I had other options. Being who I am, and the kitchen being the demented mess it is, “pantry” was the only option.
Alas it’s modern I know. Nothing like Mrs. Bug’s or Claire Fraser’s or Laura Ingalls’ or even Anna Woods’ pantries. No bare boards, pie safes, home preserves, hanging hams, braided onions, dried herbs, or treen. Oh well. It’s serviceable and shiny and ooh. I have a pantry. I have a house with a real pantry. Does that mean I have an estate?
If you’re looking for me, you’ll know where to find me.