Okay, I just have this last project to show you, and then I promise to lay off the kitchen-improvement jag and get back to knitting. Just one more, and then I'll quit. Really.
My kitchen facelift consultant (Susie) pointed out that if I were to acquire a pot rack that I could reclaim one whole cabinet's worth of kitchen real estate. And I wouldn't have to touch every pot we own each time I make an omelet (or, if you are a Smally, a "Mom-elet). Wait; I asked, incredulous: You mean that I could just saunter up to said rack, choose the one and only pan I need, and then walk away? Without handling and re-stacking all its bretheren? Whence comes this POT RACK you speak of?
Like everything, it's only easy on paper. For starters, pot racks cost a bleeding fortune. And if that weren't bad enough, they are ugly. I mean truly heinous. Like some cosmic conspiracy to punish the kitchen-challenged for not having enough storage space. I know they are supposed to be utilitarian, but, Really? You have a choice (assuming you have a squillion rubles) between styles which could be charitably described as "Inner City Playground" and "Rusty French Chicken" Neither rang my bell. But then I stumbled upon this helpful wee article, and resolved to take a whack at making my own. What could possibly go wrong?
The woodworking part went okay, if you don't consider a pound and a half of wood putty too much to hide the, um, extra screw holes I accidentally put in. I don't, because I knew the wee beastie would be painted (its own OCD saga of Spackle, Sand, Paint, Repeat). Ultimately I triumphed, and felt pretty smug that my pot rack would both fit the space I have for it, and look passable doing so.
I retired to the hardware store (the real one, where they employ codgers who mostly know how to do things, and who will bail you out if you bat your eyelashes and pretend you didn't know you needed a miter saw for that). All I needed was the right fasteners. Campbell and I cleverly weighed the pots and pans, in addition to the newly finished rack, so as to have an answer when asked how much weight we were proposing to swing from the ceiling.
Would you believe that it's possible to spend $90 on hardware to suspend 42 pounds of cookware from your ceiling? Me either. We left the hardware store with a bag of weird fastening bits and our hopes high, if guarded.
Oh, and in case you're wondering, that's automotive spray paint and primer shown above, so that the hardware bits could be made to match my swell kitchen faucet, to which they will be adjacent. These stoopid pieces of metal had to have about eight thousand individual stickers pried off of them with my fingernails. Then each one had to be rubbed down with lighter fluid to remove the residual sticker goo. Then all the pieces went for a relaxing soapy bath, followed by a vinegar rinse. All so they could then be spray-painted to match my faucet, in no less than four separate steps. At the end of that, I was ready to give any number of rubles;settle for any commercially-available eyesore; just to have the saga over with. What overdose of idiot pills made me think that a desire to do home improvements is the same as having home improvement skills?
Have I mentioned that I don't even like the kitchen? Cooking to me is like being punished for being hungry. Aside from the convenient beer storage, I find kitchens to be largely overrated. And then we ran out of beer, somewhere around the time I tried locating the ceiling joists. For I while, I was convinced there was not a single stick of wood above my kitchen, supporting the upper story. Stud finders, knocking, and pilot-holes all failed to devine any framing. I have no idea how I ultimately located infrastructure, but I finally did. And then I had to fix the mess I had made of my newly-pinted kitchen ceiling. Spackle, Sand, Paint, Repeat. I began to pray for the sweet release of death.
My kitchen loathing notwithstanding, I did eventually prevail. The cookware is suspended, the cabinet reclaimed, and the pans, well and truly Handled. The rack has been painted the color that my cabinets will ultimately wear too. Oh, did I mention I had to case the damn window behind the rack, too? Well I did. Natch.
Would I recommend trying this yourself? Not really, unless you suffer from a deplorable excess of self esteem and free time. I will say that it's nice not having to accept what was available to buy, when I didn't like any of it. There is a special satisfaction that accompanies getting just the thing you wanted, in spite of the fact that no one had it to offer you. Not unlike knitting the sweater you wish for, rather than settling for the one you can buy. Only with more swearing and climbing on the countertops. I think.