As the kitchen project muddled along, they had been employed to shield the soapstone counters (which could chip, we would find, at the drop of a screwdriver), and the new hardwood floor, to which we did not want errant paint applied.

It has been going on six months since our kitchen went under the knife. Last week, the stunning tile work finally was completed. (Who knew there were 32 colors of grout and caulk to choose from? ) And the final coat of paint went up: We'd settled, after false starts, on a shade of Tuscan gold called - mockingly? - "Midas Touch."

That's not the end of it, of course. There may never be an end to it. Our rusted toaster oven now looks like a jalopy up on blocks. We're on the hunt for a new one. The utensils, now publicly hung, seem a motley crew. There's the punching of the punch list - install a few missing switchplates, an overhead pot rack, an AWOL shelf, replace budget-priced ceiling fixtures that, in the light of day, seem to scream: "What were they thinking? "

But, yes, the beating heart and soul of the thing have been restored. Angry war stories are in retreat, subsumed by humorous ones; dark thoughts of vengeance are yielding, on good days, to Pollyanna-ish visions.

We're bonding - this newcomer and us - renewing our vows, getting past the pain of estrangement, readying to cook the blues away.

We'd been using the half-done kitchen in fits and starts, then dutifully re-lining the surfaces with the cardboard, steeling ourselves for the next onslaught.

But this time we cooked like there was no tomorrow. Or no tomorrow, at least, full of grout dust or the drool of Midas Touch, of oak-flooring sawdust or powdered drifts of sawn wallboard.

From a bag at the back of the refrigerator, I salvaged a heap of sweet chioggia beets that I boiled for a terrific German gasthaus beet salad that is topped with quartered, hard-cooked eggs. (Page 122 of Walter Staib's Black Forest Cuisine. )

Then I made one of my favorite comfort stews - food writer Marian Burros' faux-Hungarian goulash, which involves, in addition to three cups of sauteed onions, julliened bell peppers, and lots of paprika, two pounds of rinsed sauerkraut, chunked pork tenderloin, slab bacon, and, in this case, the homemade Italian sausage that Paul Bovo, the butcher at the Narberth American Family Market, grinds out three blocks away.

We called our old friends Al and Ena to come share the feed, and they showed up with red table wine and a pear tart from Metropolitan Bakery and, as a surprise kitchen-warming gift, one of those heavy, cherry-red enameled casseroles.

We put it on the open shelf, just above the cubby of our ironstone dishes. And it posed there like a piece of missing punctuation, the exclamation point we'd been afraid to add ourselves - a dab of icing where we'd only been able to see half-baked cake.

So we celebrated - christening the space - though that had not been the invitation's intent.

We'd simply decided to have friends over at the last minute, drink a little wine by the fire, and hang out in the kitchen while we finished cooking the supper.

Which, now that the dust has settled (and the cardboard is gone), strikes me as what the months-long rehab was about, the whole point of the exercise.

Or one of the points, at least.

 Read more about Rick Nichols' kitchen at http://go.philly.com/rickskitchen