[8/29/2004]My kitchen runs the width of the house across the back. Light comes in from the south and the east. There is a sketch of the floorplan on one of the many documents that came with buying this place. Although there is no actual wall dividing it, the plans designate the north end of the room as a kitchen and the south end as a den.

A chief joy for me since buying my house is playing what I call big-girl dollhouse rearranging furniture. I admire even envy people who find the best arrangement for their stuff and stick to it. It’s so commonplace for me to rearrange my furniture, I don’t usually even bother to mention it anymore.

My kitchen has evolved from my initial vision as a neat, formal room where I would cook and eat.

“No matter where I serve my guests it seems they like my kitchen best.” That was the saying on a cast-iron plaque that hung from a chain, off-center, on the wall behind my grandmother’s stove.

I have no such plaque, I don’t entertain much and my kitchen is rarely productive or crowded, but I have noticed that life in my house tends to gravitate toward the kitchen. And, even when it’s good, life in my house is a little messy.

The kitchen’s become my “someday” place.

Stripped down, the kitchen is plain, in shades of white and beige and black. I crave color. Someday, I will paint it. The other rooms have found their bliss through bright yellow, cherry red and robin’s egg blue. But the kitchen’s just too big for me to tackle painting alone. A friend suggested, “Get red curtains.” So I did.

That and the half-painted red chair to match have been my only touches of “decorating” in that room.

Everything else that’s happened there is just life.

The southern and eastern exposure means it’s bright and cheerful in the mornings and warm and cozy in the afternoons.

So, from the beginning, I wanted a soft place to sit to drink my coffee.

The secondhand love seat made its way to the den end of the room, along with an old television.

I hate the vinyl floor. So it’s fortunate, then, that my 11-month-old, 55-pound puppy feels the same way, and has begun the arduous process of removing it.

The kitchen has not been touched by the trend toward paring down that the rest of the rooms are undergoing.

I have big plans for “someday” in this kitchen. I’m going to replace the vinyl with laminate wood flooring to match the hardwood in the rest of the house. I’m going to replace the electric stove with a refurbished old gas stove. Not only am I going to paint, I’m going to have new cabinets built with ceramicm hand-painted knobs. Someday.

I’ve got all these grand someday plans, but, untouched, it’s the best room in the house.

There was a cookbook called “The Sacred Kitchen” that came out a few years ago. The concept is that food preparation for ourselves, our families, our friends is holy so the space where this takes place should connect us to the divine. The kitchen should be in the center of the so-called circle of life. I like that idea. Their interpretation, though, is that a kitchen should be a serene, clutter-free space.

Don’t get me wrong. My kitchen’s not dirty. I wash dishes after every meal, and I mop the floors two or three times a week. I disinfect the counters and wipe down the table daily. I do have to lift or shift several stacks of books, piles of paper and an assortment of items to complete those tasks.

Where life gathers for me, so does clutter. The kitchen’s not just where I cook and eat.

It’s where I drink coffee and watch the Weather Channel in the mornings.

It’s where I sort through my monthly bills and struggle with my checkbook.

It’s where I read and take naps on the weekends.

It’s where I stack yard sale treasures until I figure out where they need to be.

It’s where I gaze out the window and daydream about someday.

Whatever is going on in my life is reflected in my kitchen. It’s sappy but my kitchen is the heart and soul of the house. Even with the clutter, even with the dog-ripped floors, my kitchen has already found its divinity.

Sometimes I think my obsession with yard sales grows from the single desire to find an identical plaque to the one that hung over my grandma’s stove.

So far, I haven’t seen one. Someday, though.

Sonya Kimbrell is features editor of The Vicksburg Post. E-mail her at skimbrell@vicksburgpost.com.