All this past weekend, I was giving myself a little pep-talk. If we could get the kitchen project far enough along, we could hang the doors when I got home from work on Monday. All the work and the grime and the tedium would be worth it, because -- finally -- some part of our kitchen would look really nice.
As we unloaded the pieces from my car, one of my insane neighbors set off a volley of professional-grade fireworks.
It all seemed very auspicious.
We had previously cleaned the paint off the original hinges, and carefully saved the original screws. Once the car was unloaded, I set about re-attaching the hardware to the doors.
And it became immediately clear that we would not be hanging doors tonight. The hinges barely moved, and easily a third of the screws were unusably stripped.
We got two doors hung -- badly. I threw a little tantrum.
We had dinner and a beer.
And then we realized that historic restoration did not require us to use crappy hardware. The cabinets can wait another day, until we've bought some better supplies.
But damn. I really wanted to see those doors in place. Grump. Grump. Grump. I think I'll be going to bed extra-early tonight.