It's some 42-odd steps up to my apartment door. On most days, this is isn't a problem, but the days I come home with overloaded heavy bags of all the neighborhood goodies from places like Damascus Bakery, Sahadi's, Atlantic Fruit & Veg, Amy's Bread and even TJ's, it can quickly become a workout. But as soon as I make it through our front door and take the ten additional steps into our kitchen, all feelings of discomfort and fatigue subside, and they're immediately replaced with pleasantry. You see it as this room, it is this kitchen and this kitchen alone, that convinced my husband and I to apply for a lease here some four years ago.

This kitchen is one I never thought I'd have, after years of cooking in spaces that were no bigger than a few city sidewalk squares and with counter space that could barely fit more than a couple of mixing bowls. Here it is the opposite. The glistening black granite countertops wrap around two sides of the room. They're juxtaposed against white wood cabinets and stainless steel appliances...dishwasher included. All in all, it's an amateur chef's modern delight. There's more storage than I thought I'd know what to do with, until I realized my shopping compulsion for all things kitchen. The ample amount of cabinets were vessels for a ridiculous amount of Charlie Harper glassware, quirky mugs collected from our travels around the world, oversized (and very much needed) wine glasses, plates painted with animals wearing knit cardigans, and jacquard suit jackets, and not to mention way too many bags, jars, and cans, of all flavor-bursting delicious dry goods.

But that's not even all. As if the cabinets weren't enough. There was also a pantry. A pantry so tall, you needed a step stool and some contortionist-like skills to reach the very top shelf. The pantry was my favorite of all the things in this kitchen. It was an organizer's a wet dream, demanding all types of Container Store product to keep everything from jars of hot sauce and dill pickles to office supplies and hammers neatly in their place...all tucked behind a large white wooden door. The kitchen had enough space to pirouette in place while you waited for your latest sheet pan recipe to finish roasting without stumbling into the two kitchen stools that provided the perfect respite after a long day or our pup's private dining area. We eventually added a West Elm-via-Craigslist kitchen island, which fit nicely in the center of the room and proudly displayed my addiction to cookbooks, my beloved black Kitchen-Aid, and a drawer dedicated to uncommon spices I rarely used, but was oh-so-glad to have.

The two large wood pane pre-war windows were conduits for bright light. As the sun passed overhead, various warm and cozy spots emerged on the original wood floors, creating places for pug to catch an additional heated snooze. Looking out our two beautiful windows provided three distinct portraits. Looking up, you could see the beautiful Brooklyn sky, looking down your inner curious Peeping Tom could take hold with views into our neighbor's bedroom, and across was our neighbor's kitchen, identical in layout, but just some 30 years older. We often waved to one another as I did dishes, or she munched on a sandwich. Every now and then we'd both raise our crookedy wood windows and have a brief conversation. Four floors up, 15 feet across. We'd chat about the weather, what we were cooking that day and compliment one another on our failed attempts to keep the potted plants alive in our respective window sills. It was this room that resulted in so much joy, so many delicious baked, fried, roasted, blanched, popped, and even burnt memories. So many moments of gratitude when friends would come over and "wow" at the size of this out this oddity. So many moments of celebration. It's the best kitchen I've ever had. And one I'll never forget.