First, L. Joy and I made a nest on the living room floor in front of the fireplace, with all our blankets and pillows and Dante and Babette. Then we turned to the kitchen, and both got giddy at the prospect of planting our spices and skillets in uncharted territory. We had some conflict over the proper location of the vanilla. I wanted it next to the coconut oil for tropical synergy, but it really ought to be with the other spices (which are, by the by, NOT next to the stove because they do not stay as fresh near the heat). Fortunately, we each have a huge bottle of high-quality Mexican vanilla gifted us by concerned relatives, so there are now two vanilla locations in the kitchen.
And though I do not usually admit to the existence of baking mixes, L. Joy did unpack a box of Ghirardelli brownies, and I figured I could make neither my first nor last concession for Ghirardelli. We used butter instead of vegetable oil, and added extra eggs, and vanilla from both of our stashes. But after all that, the silly oven wasn't preheating. I realized the temperature knob was attached wrong, and for a moment I revisited my days with the Prince cookstove, testing the oven's warmth with my hand as my Aunt J. taught me. This, unfortunately, is one of those built-in electric ovens with an incomprehensible timer apparatus.
But junky as my new oven may be, it does heat things. When the brownies were done, gooey but pulling back from the sides, L. Joy miraculously conjured up some ice cream, and we blissed out on boxed pleasure.