Breakfast sausage served alongside runny, sunny-side up eggs. Who could ask for anything more?
My Connecticut kitchen, gut-renovated in a disruptive and harrowing 12-week marathon last year, is my true north. It’s not fitted with enormous restaurant appliances or testosterone-fueled gadgets. Rather, its gray-green walls and white cabinets are more Zen than anything else, its lightly patterned countertops a tabula rasa.