Maybe I’ve mentioned once or twice that I spent the last several weeks packing up the last twenty-nine years of my life and moving it into a garage. Where I live. Have I mentioned that part yet? The garage-living?
Here’s what cooking looks like when you live in a garage:
Just like cooking in not a garage, right?
Good news… when you cook outside, the kitchen doesn’t smell like food for the next four days. Particularly good when your kitchen is also your bedroomlivingroombathroom. When I finally share with you how our house in the garage actually looks, you’re going to tell me to shut my mouth about it being a “garage” because other than being tiny, we’re actually living in the most luxurious garage ever.
And I would show it to you now except for the fact that I need to shovel three tons of miscellaneous crap out of it first. Which would probably go faster if I took a little time off from drinking beer and cooking tacos in the front yard to fold the laundry.
And finish the kitchenette tile.
And install the sink.
And put on closet doors.
Ok, there is a slight backlog of projects to bring the Station up to “habitable for long periods of time”, but in my defense this is just a small fraction of the stuff I moved and have yet to organize.
And yes, that is the microwave that we actually use to heat up food in the corner. It’s like a boot camp obstacle course to nuke a hot-pocket around here, which explains why we’ve been shedding pounds rather drastically for the last couple of weeks.
A lot of the obstacle course is thanks to my grandmother who, as it happens, is the worlds most efficient packer.
I think the only four cubic feet of open space in the van was the drivers seat.
The experience of packing and moving was exactly what you’d expect it to be. Painful and exhausting. But I found some forgotten treasures in the mess of stuff we moved.
The first piece of furniture I ever built, with nothing but a Black & Decker drill and some wood glue. Still standing strong (and colorful) after 10 years.
An also very colorful portrait I did in college.
And when I wasn’t spending all of my free time painting things bright colors…
I was competing in martial arts tournaments. I found my old nunchaku (Ssahng Jeol Bong, for Taekwondo) in that box and after swinging it around a few times (I have not lost my touch) I hid them away, because its a Law of the Universe that an untrained man in possession of a pair of nunchucks will inevitably whack himself in the nuts with them. Every. Time.
Like this dude, for example.
Frankly, we’ve got enough going on as it is without nunchuck related hospital visits.