I have patiently waited for a new kitchen. One that would accommodate both my dishes and a small crowd of hungry mouths waiting to be satisfied with succulent morsels of slow roasted chicken bathed in lemon and garlic, vuluptuous spoonfuls of airy chocolate mousse and pillows of buttery berry-filled pastries. Heaven to the tastebuds.
If you remember from 'I'm Dreaming of a White Kitchen', there were three kitchens that set my heart a'fluttering. So after much roving back and forth, a decision was made.
It may have been all the decisions; rounded bench edges or straight, benchtop colour, cupboard door style, handle style, lighting, sinks, mixers but it all became a soupy blur and I was swiftly escorted to an unexpected utopia also known as the Ikea restaurant.
Despite lengthy queues, it didn't seem long before a dinner plate was skidded across the table to me, accompanied by a bottle of juice. There, sitting on a pillow of soft, creamy mashed potato were a dozen sauteed little gems. One bite and I was considering Sweedish citizenship. These little meatballs were so good, I wondered how I never knew about them before now. Forget the kitchen measurements left on the table at home, (nothing more needs to be said about that!)forget stone benchtops and soft-close drawers. Now I had the ultimate excuse to drive half an hour on the freeway, scramble through the winding maze of Ikea and fight off shoppers just to have one more meatball or nine and it would all be completely justifiable and most definitely worth it. This was a whole new European dining experience. Would this nation stop at nothing to create yet another genius offering to the masses?
copyright 2010 Philippa Vette