Last night, in an act of what began as laziness, I moved the garbage bin from the other side of the garage, through the backyard and next to the sliding door in the kitchen. In doing so, I came to realize really how big the house was; I mean, I always knew the numbers. Two bedrooms. Seventeen-hundred square feet. But until you walk through it in the still of a Conejo Valley evening, making much more rumbling with your garbage bin on the brick-lined paths than a sleepy bedroom suburb is used to hearing, you begin to appreciate the enormity of such a structure. And it's mine; it's all mine.

I went back into my kitchen, sauteeing rock shrimp and zucchini, with a renewed sense of pride of ownership, something that escapes me every now and then here in this house. I spend most of my time in the bedroom and the living room, not even using the kitchen as much these days. I don't receive as many guests as I did during the height of my early culinary campaign, but lately I've been donning the apron and ensuring that the Viking fire stays alive.