Thoughts whilst packing my kitchen

I only touch my ice cream machine about once a year, and that’s when I’m cleaning it to pack it.
Bright lights, loud music, packing the kitchen - feels awfully “single girl.” Which is Lebanese* for “great.”
Packing validates my habit of compulsively storing every plastic bag, paper bag, packing material, rubber band, twist tie, plastic tub, not-really-dirty Ziploc bags and any item that might potentially one day be useful. Which of course means I’ll never ever throw anything away.
I’d rather pack these enormous stack of jeans than discover I fit into none of them.
I was enjoying this “trip to Europe” thing more before I checked my bank balance. Crikey.
Why does year-old Nutella taste and smell like a candle?
It sucks to pack a kitchen. Nothing can be packed in an organized fashion- everything is shaped irregularly, so the juicer has to go with the fondue sticks and the vacuum-sealed lentils with the sheet pans.
Wouldn’t it be nice to just hole away in some kitchen in some European village and learn to cook a local cuisine? Maybe I don’t need the media at all …

*= too soon?