Kits in the Kitchen

There's a drum kit sitting smack bang in the middle of my kitchen at the moment.

We're talking bass drum, snare, tom-tom, and a hi-hat.

Why is it in my kitchen?

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

If you ask my Beloved, that is.

If you ask me - well, I actually can't post my reply here, being a PG-rated site and all.

See, our daughter, aged 8, has joined the school band. And after in-depth testing of rhythm, tone, and embouchure, the music teachers in their wisdom decided that the instrument of choice for our girl would be the glockenspiel ... and drums.

Coming from a fairly musical family, I get that she has some natural aptitude. I mean to say, you could pretty much set up a band of any sort using members of our family, across multiple generations. And anyone who knows us will tell you that any time any number of us are together out comes the guitars and gear and the jam session begins. It's the Irish in us coming out. To be sure.

But glockenspiel?

And drums?

Most kids get given one instrument, however our teacher decided to use Miss V as a guinea pig and have her learn two at once. Kinda like a one-woman percussion section.

When our son joined the band he got the trumpet and followed in my (brief) footsteps as cornet player in the school band, back in my day.  Happy to say I didn't embarrass myself when he brought the thing home and could still make a noise, even though it was one that may have had the 'Great Satchmo' Louis Armstrong turning in his grave (I would say 'Rest In Peace' but that's not likely with us on the trumpet).

So when our little girl decided she too would try out for the band, we expected her to get a similar thing, maybe some 'girly' instrument like the flute.

But no, glockenspiel and drums it is.

So glockenspiel and drums are what's taking up residence in our residence. Albeit in the kitchen.

Thing is, there's not a lot of space at our place. The 3 bedrooms are already filled with bodies and bits. And the living room is no place to make music that could wake the dead.

Unlike my father when we were young, we're not about to kick kids out so that there can be a dedicated 'music room' (sometimes I swear he'd escape in there just to drown out the arguments of three feisty females crammed in one small room).

So we're attempting to clear out the old garage, where many a great muso has had their start.

Unfortunately we didn't do so before we brought the drum kit home. It couldn't stay in the car, even though the cymbal was playing its own catchy little jazz beat every time I hit a bump (tcch tch tch tcch tch tch tcch). So my Beloved brought it in and dumped it in the kitchen.

You try making dinner with a bass drum between you, the stove, and the cutlery drawer!

I can only say the beating of the skin was somewhat louder than the curses that came out each time I booted the bass, or caught myself on the little lugs en route to the dining table (which incidentally, has a trumpet case sitting on it for some strange reason).

After a number of drum solos inadvertently performed by each member of the family in their turn taking dirty dishes to the sink, I asked my Beloved when he envisages the kit and kitchen might part ways: "As soon as we get a decent spot cleared in the front room to set it up," is his not-so-promising reply.

Looks like I'm going to have to fine tune my footwork if the family expects to be fed on a  regular basis between now and then.

And if you can't stand the beat, well, stay out of my kitchen!

Jx

©2012

Clean Machine

Whose bright idea was it to put white cupboard doors in the kitchen?

I asked myself this very question for the umpteenth time as I crouched down on the linoleum to attack the marks that were all too apparent against the creamy background, if you looked closely enough.

Like so many endeavours, it seemed like a good idea at the time- the light laminate would brighten the previously cacky khaki that graced the room, and give the impression of more space in the tiny little galley style kitchen.

But I didn’t think it through, obviously, and forgot an often-used ingredient in food preparation at our house: my family.

Anyone else who’s the proud owner of a husband and/or small children will know only too well the amount of mess they can make. For those who don’t, take a quick read of Dr Seuss’s ‘The Cat In the Hat Comes Back’ to see how one seemingly small spot can spread to alarming proportions by someone trying to be ‘helpful’.

With the imminent arrival of the mother-in-law (M-I-L) on the weekend I cast a critical eye across the workspace and in lieu of little cats A through Z, I thought I’d best get going on a quick clean-up myself. Easier said than done. Especially with creamy cupboards in the mix.

As soon as I was satisfied that one door wasn’t dirty, I noticed with chagrin that its neighbour now needed attention and made my way around the kitchen scrubbing one then the next.  Since it’s better for bad backs to actually sit on the floor to complete this feat, I found myself unfortunately (or conveniently- the jury’s still out on that one) placed at eye level with the kickboards below.  And my eyes did not like what they saw.  After I’d given those a wipe down I was drawn to the stainless steel appliances in the room (another bright idea that in hindsight isn’t so shiny).  Sure they look nice and tidy, but the professed finger-mark-free finish sure isn’t living up to its promise and I spent a good few minutes polishing the prints off, before dragging out the glass cleaner to ensure the oven door was also spot-free.

It was only then when I looked at our shiny new splashback that I realized our folly was greater than I had even imagined.

Sure it all looks spick and span in the showroom where it’s someone’s job to keep it squeaky clean for the customers, but give it a decent dinnertime or two and you’ll be lucky to see your reflection peering back at you from its once-glossy surface.

And on it went.  Me moving ‘round the room with my environmentally-friendly cleaning products, while the clocks on the oven and the microwave teased me with their ticking, bringing the inspector ever closer (OK so she doesn’t come with a white glove, but then again she doesn’t need to!). Meanwhile the kids were causing chaos in another part of the house, while My Beloved was outside playing handyman with the drains that never fail to fill to overflowing this time of year.

You can imagine my reaction when a mud-speckled man came into my kitchen looking for a well-earned drink.

“Out, out damn spot” I cried while flapping the now tattered dish cloth at him, and

chased him from the house to scrape off another layer of dirt before being allowed back in.

So now I am once again the proud if not anxious owner of a sparkling clean kitchen, with every white door, glossy splashback, and stainless steel appliance accounted for.

And I am determined it will remain that way for the duration of M-I-L’s visit.

Or until dinnertime anyway.

Jx

©2010