More kitchen, then to market

On Friday I tore away at the kitchen some more. The man from the department of public works called to ask if I still needed a disposal waiver for the debris I was generating. I told him I did. I could tell from his tone that he would just as soon I took care of this on my own, maybe dumping the stuff in some illegal roadside collection point, the weeds and small trees eventually obscuring the boards and nails and drywall and pieces of tile there by the road. I’ve seen these improvised dump-sites many times on my bike rides—they’re not pretty. He said he would try to make it out to the house, would leave the waiver, which was a kind of permit, on my door. I said ok.

The rest of the metal cabinets came away, along with good-sized chunks of the wall. I used mostly the pry bar and reciprocating saw to cut through the metal of the cabinets and the nails and screws that held them in place. They were pretty securely attached to the wall; even the most thunderous whack from my heavy maul, crashing into the dented metal with terrific force, mostly just dented the cabinets even more. Finally, with the bulk of the fixtures gone, I had at it again with the heavy hammer, dislodging the last bit of cupboard enough to pry it away with the wrecking bar. On the other side of this wall is the bathroom. Both walls—the bathroom’s and the kitchen’s—will be mostly removed, so that there will be daylight between the two rooms until I erect new sheets of drywall and maybe tile it over in the bathroom. The pipes to the kitchen sink are now protruding from the floor, where the sink used to be. I will cut them off from the basement and cap them until I decide where the new sink is to go.

At market:

Today I listened with a combination of sadness and regret as my young helper described her preparations for her boyfriend’s birthday celebration. She’d baked a cake for the young man, whom she obviously adored, and assembled a little package of pastries and croissants to give him on his special day. The cake she had made from scratch, something she was understandably very proud of. I’d provided the croissants and so on, a benefit of working at my bread stand. I was going to fire her at the end of the day, let her go for being late on several occasions—including today, when she reported to work almost a half-hour after her starting time. My other helper and I had to scramble to keep up with the load, while I anxiously waited, having no idea if she were coming or not. I like her very much; she is a young artist of twenty or so, a student at the big art school in town, and I admired her sketches and works she produced at the market—things that helped with the presentation and the sale of the breads and pastries. Life rarely offers the perfect opportunity to embark on such an action, and this was certainly no exception. With her obvious anticipation of a joyful time with her boyfriend, presenting him with the cake and surprising him with the different pastries he enjoyed, I felt very much the heartless ogre, delivering the news as I paid her. In my mind I had no choice; I’d told her in the past how important it was that she arrive on time, and this had been mostly ignored, with always an apology on her part. She apologized again as we parted, and I told her that I genuinely liked her, thought she did a good job while working with me, but that the lateness was too big an issue. She seemed to understand. I’ve already lined up another helper—the woman who worked with me at my Thursday market last week. Tomorrow I’ll be on my own until the girl who comes at eight o’clock arrives. I think I’ll be able to handle it ok.