It is the rare New Yorker that’s lucky enough to possess a real working kitchen. For most of us, it's just a dream. Oh, what we wouldn't do for a little counter space? Hell, we'd settle for just a counter. When I landed my first apartment this summer, I was shocked to discover this amenity. As far as I was concerned, it was reason enough to sign for the place on the spot. When it came time to move in, I neatly arranged bottles of olive oil and vinegar along the wall, tucking my miniature coffeemaker into the corner and placing glass containers full of dried pasta, flour and coffee on display. It was just perfect—an immaculately organized space. Then, I realized something. Somewhere in between the flour jar and the pepper mill, things had become a little cramped. Forcing my cooking to become highly strategic, every dish presented its own unique set of challenges, obstacles and little victories. Diced onions have become a daily casualty, but the frittata continues to renew my faith in the magical properties of eggs. Of course, fancy maneuvering aside, I still manage to chop, smash and mince my way through it all, keeping my balance somewhere in between the wall and where the countertop ends.