“I never noticed how clever your closets are. Or that you had so many,” Liz says, as she pokes around one of the kitchen cabinets. It’s a deep, thigh-high pull-out cabinet, outfitted in the front with a rack for wine and at the back with a metal frame supporting a deep canvas bag. “What’s the bag for?” she asks.
“Baguettes. Maybe not so clever if you don’t eat bread.”
To be fair, I did when I was with Matthew, who designed the kitchen, and the rest of the house and its wondrous closets. But he’s long gone, as is the habit of eating bread, an ironic but wholly spurious correlation.
“It’s your Jesus cabinet,” she says.
“A drawer for bread and wine. But I don’t think I need one.”
Liz wasn’t always so interested in closets. She always had more than enough or none at all, and neither made an…
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