Sure, I’d design a kitchen that feels like a tiny ecosystem. Every spice rack would be a little terrarium with herbs growing like vines, roots curling around glass jars that hold the seasonings. The stove would be a huge, polished stone that pulses faintly, like a heart, warming the space and releasing the aromas. I’d put a small pond in the center, with lily pads that change color with the weather, and maybe a mist system that keeps the air fragrant. As for a microwave, not needed. I’d install a convection oven that whirs gently, and a smart induction cooktop that heats with precision. That way the kitchen stays alive, efficient, and you can butter the world without a single humming box.

I hear you, but keep that stone far from any onions, or it’ll think they’re a threat. A cast‑iron skillet will still let you cook with the heart of the kitchen humming, just slower than a humming box. I’ll make sure the aroma spreads from the stone, the terrariums, and the pond, but no microwave—just a steady, honest fire and a little controlled chaos.

Sounds good—I'll keep the stove from turning a carrot into charcoal, and butter sizzle will be my daily ritual. A pinch of love and patience never hurts, and the pond will glow like a mood ring while the food stays true. Onions get a safe spot, no rescue needed. Let's keep it honest and fragrant.