The kitchen? It's as done as it's going to be for at least the next few months. There are a couple of touch-ups I should do, a few woodworking projects which I assume will not be as awesome as in my mind's eye and yet. I have a smouldering desire to make beautiful and useful things out of wood.
My current trivial (because in the grand scheme of things anything not Life-or-Death is trivial) sadness is the state of my knitting.
Beautiful, right? (Ignore her; she has no clue and besides, she has Resting Bitchface). Cashmere-silk in a slightly relaxed gauge for drape and softness. Yummy.
Except bad. That's the thing when just knitting an idea: without trying it out, you can't always tell if it'll work, which is to say that it may not work on your body. And it doesn't.
I've been spending all this time knitting a scaffolding to showcase the gorgeous (and expensive) skein of hand-dyed merino-possum-silk I bought in New Zealand and it is frankly deficient.
My previous self who would happily binge-knit a weekend away would barely have blinked and sighed before ripping it all out, but this me, the one that really shouldn't knit more than an hour a day and preferably not every day to avoid hand pain is quite a bit less sanguine about the prospect of starting over.