There was a cavernous living room with plush red armchairs and a heavy carpet, the oldest kitchen I’d ever seen, with an iron stove and a water pump, another room with pale blue walls and green lounge chairs. Eventually, we found ourselves in another kitchen, much more modern, where the faint scent of onions lingered. Pots, skillets, funnels, and sieves hung above a butcher block island in the center of the room. The marble countertops looked so smooth and new I had to tamp down the urge to lick them corner to corner. “Two kitchens?” I asked. “Yeah. The other one is historic or something.
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