For close to seven years now, I’ve lived in an apartment with a teeny kitchen and no countertops. Mine is a standard galley: a straight line of sink, stove, and fridge facing a hodgepodge of overstuffed shelves. The narrow strip in between mostly refuses to fit more than one person. The kitchen nearly kept me from taking the place — I am something of a hoarder and also a food writer — but the good light, the claw-foot tub, and the little half-bedroom off the actual bedroom tipped the scales, so I decided instead to retrofit my often messy cooking life into its narrow 35 square feet. Now, I ping through the space like a pinball, choreographing my desires in the few feet between cutting board and stove and sink and shelf, rehearsing a dance performed for and by one.