Pete and his father renovated the kitchen about fifteen years ago. As designs for shared kitchens go, it’s perplexing: six-foot persons should share it with seven-foot persons and all of them should be skinny like cornstalks. I would put things I used often where I could reach them and Pete put them back up where I could not. I told him to quit it; he told me to use the fuzzy, rickety folding stool. I explained how we were gonna get divorced with the help of a wood chipper if he didn’t quit hiding the crystallized ginger behind the kosher salt; he laughed and I rearranged his salt collection. The third time the bottle of olive oil fell on my head I swore in three languages and bought this spice rack. We scrubbed out the cabinet, brought bottles and jars down from the top two shelves and Pete and I did not get divorced.