In 1970, when my husband, the author Evan Jones, and I bought the co-op apartment where I grew up, on Manhattan's Upper East Side, I knew what kind of kitchen I wanted—modeled on Julia's but expressive of us. The building was constructed in the early 1900s, when architects allowed fairly ample space for hired kitchen help (our kitchen measures about eight by ten feet). Separating the kitchen and dining room was a convenient pantry, with its own sink, intended as a place for the maid to wash glasses. There was also a small, diamond-shaped window in the door to the dining room that allowed her to see when it was time to bring out the next course. At first, the distance the pantry created between the dining room and the kitchen seemed a problem, and we tried to break down some walls to bring us closer to our guests, but there were too many ancient pipes embedded in there, and we had to give up. In the end it turned out to be a blessing; we made the pantry into a cozy dining area, where we put a round marble cafe table for two and hung our own copper pans, which cast a warm glow when we ate by candlelight.