Last week I had to take matters into my own hands, Rosie the Riveter style. Cookbooks were amok, buckets and baskets strewn about, and every revolution of the washing machine’s spin cycle sent the clutter atop the heap into a frenzied break-dance. The project intended to curb all this chaos had been started a week or more ago, but had gotten swept up in the current of Our Lives and washed away to some remote place downstream.
At some point last week, the steam built up enough to make this kettle whistle, loudly, and I decided that enough was enough. I’m actually pretty capable and handy and all that, but for some reason, inserting anchors into plaster walls seems both too cumbersome and not nearly instant-gratification-enough for me. So I usually leave it to my handyman, Mr. Andrew. (he’s the husband in this story) Turns out this handyman’s itinerary is miles long, with much more pressing projects, if you can believe that.
Enter drill, anchors, perfectly sized screws (bought by Mr. Handyman specifically for the project), some barn wood from our demolished barn, some shelf brackets, and you have yourself the ingredients for some clutter-busting, order-making sanity. My favorite kind.
That’s much, much better.
Really, though, this just may have been an excuse to create a space for this family-heirloom scale and thrifted vintage apothecary bottle.