For sale: One quart of semi-gloss

paint, never opened. Color: "clay pot." Will throw in slightly

used paint pad free.

Well, it wasn't the hardware

guy's fault we bought too much paint. I think we told him the kitchen

is 13 1/2 X 10, but probably didn't mention that one side is open to the

great room while the other three are all windows, door, stove, fridge

and cabinets.

This would be nearly the last

step of the make-over our 16-year-old house has undergone in the year

2000. One bathroom needs to be re-papered, and we're thinking about some

light fixtures over the breakfast counter, but the big updates carpet,

stove, furniture are done.

Considering how little actual

wall there is in the kitchen, I can't believe it took me the better part

of two days to paint it. First thing I did was to disregard the advice

of one of my decorating consultants, i.e. a friend whose taste I trust.

My heart, usually committed to neutrals, was inexplicably set on a terra

cotta color, like bleached-out clay flower pots or faded brick.

After sticking squares of colored

paper here and there for weeks, then standing back and squinting in vain

to see how they'd look if they covered the whole room, I finally dragged

my friend in and asked her what artistic rules I needed to consider.

Even though she has splashed

blatant red liberally around her house, she cautioned me that if I felt

timid about going too bright, I should choose the color I like and then

buy the next lighter shade, since large surfaces tend to look darker and

bolder than small ones.

I ignored her, of course. The

color I liked best was named "clay pot" and the next lighter

one had some sissy name like "pretty sunset."

You can bet which I chose.

One adviser thought I could

leave up the old beige faux-grass cloth in order to have a little texture,

but another said, No, it would not "take" paint well and would

peel besides. Take it off, he said, then spackle and sand to get a smooth

surface.

Groan. That sounded like work.

But he spoke with the authority of experience, so I decided to take on

the added task of stripping wallpaper as well.

I bought the paint two quarts

and a little padded dealie that rolls paint under the ceiling and along

window frames. A bonus of aging is knowing oneself. I knew I'd hate this

job if I forced myself to do it, but if I left the paint on the counter

and just worked around it, the day would come when I'd be eager to do

it. And it did.

I thought I had an event to

cover Nov. 4. But when I discovered that my mental calendar was a week

off, I was suddenly blessed with the greatest gift the gods can bestow:

a "found" day, a whole day unexpectedly open to other possibilities.

Started right after breakfast,

figured it would take until lunch time. Yeah, right.

The fine print and TV commercials

would have you believe that painting a room is painting a room. In real

life, painting a room, especially a kitchen, is taking down stuff, scrubbing

off that sticky goop that collects in kitchens, undoing outlet plates,

yanking off paper, spackling gaps and nail holes, sanding, spreading newspaper

over counters loaded with the aforementioned stuff.

There may have been only 100

or so square feet of wall to paint, but there were at least 100 items

baskets, wooden salad bowls, tile plaques, pottery, a spice rack, glass

jars full of beans and pasta that had to be moved out of the way before

anything like painting could begin.

At about the time the clutter

was impenetrable and the sanding underway, Dave got hungry. Cooking, yea,

finding food and dishes, was out of the question. Crisis averted by a

quick trip to the Italian Oven.