In times of crisis, I've found that people obsess over peculiar solutions for empty kitchen walls. While my sister spent six weeks creating wall art from vintage soup can labels, my latest fixation – a medium-sized ceramic flower in lustrous pearl, like moonlight captured in clay – feels surprisingly sophisticated. "It's decor," I explained to my partner, who found me in the kitchen, examining wall spaces with the concentration of someone planning to hide a secret passage. "Though really, it's more like what would happen if an oyster decided to become an interior designer and branched out beyond making pearls." The ceramic piece came with a keyhole mount that my mother insists looks like a tiny portal to a more elegant dimension. But there's something perfect about its medium size, like it's confident without being showy. I hung it in the kitchen, replacing a framed collection of antique spice labels that had slowly faded into various shades of beige. The pearlescent flower transformed our kitchen from a place where we merely burned toast into a space that felt curated, as if someone with actual taste had briefly taken over our decorating decisions. Every time I look at it while cooking, I imagine it's quietly celebrating its role in elevating our kitchen from "random magnet collection showcase" to "intentionally designed culinary space." Who knew what to hang in a kitchen could make such a difference? Certainly not the previous occupant, who'd left us with a wall-mounted fish that sang "Don't Worry, Be Happy" when you walked past.