I still remember the morning my youngest climbed into a sunlit stool to stir pancake batter while the neighbor’s golden retriever snoozed under the table. Between school drop-offs, soccer practice, and Saturday playdates, my kitchen became more than a cooking space; it was a living room with a stove. I started noticing the ways our family gravitated toward warmth and texture—the worn wooden cutting board, a favorite linen towel, a potted basil plant with sticky little hands learning to water it. Those small comforts pushed me to rework our space into something that felt calm and practical. Over time I…