I like my kitchen.

It has the usual things a kitchen has—a toaster, a fridge, that sort of thing.

It also has special pieces, most coming from Charles Street and its environs, as I imagine most of the stuff in your kitchen does too. One of my favorites is the 1920s steel and brass lighting fixture we picked up at Christopher Anthony Ltd., the antique shop at the corner of River and Chestnut. Another is the collection of plates for serving scallops that we got at Churchill and White. Dish towels are from Linens on the Hill. The cabinets were made by a talented guy who lives on the Hill.

Another favorite part of the kitchen is the quote my husband stenciled over the hood over the stove. It’s from Alexander Pope’s Universal Prayer, and it reads, “This day, be bread and peace my lot,” a hope that is more easily achieved in our neighborhood than in some corners of the world.

But the aspect of our kitchen I like most is that from it we see the residents of Beacon Hill passing by.

Our kitchen is in the front of what I’ve been told is an “English basement,” the lower level of a building that is partially below grade, like many on Beacon Hill.  Three windows stretch above the sink and counter for two-thirds of the width of the building.

We have venetian blinds that cover the top portion of the windows, because, in a configuration peculiar to some former tenements, the kitchen ceiling is lower than the tops of the windows and rises to meet the tops of the windows at the front of the building. It looks bizarre from the outside so we cover that up. But unlike many residents, who keep their windows covered, we have left open the bottom portion of the windows, which lie exactly at the level of the sidewalk outside.

People can see in. I know people enjoy peeking in other people’s windows, and I’m happy to provide that entertainment, such as it is. But more importantly, we can see out.

We see the legs of people walking their dogs, hauling their groceries up the Hill in a pull-cart, or chatting on their cell phones as they walk. (We can hear them.) We listen to the running feet of car owners who are trying to beat the tow truck on street-cleaning day. We hear laughter and conversation sometimes if it is loud enough. A few times we’ve heard arguments and accusations. Once in awhile I catch dog owners dropping a little plastic bag on the sidewalk. At that point I run out and try to lecture them, but I’m not always fast enough.

The little girls who live two doors away were just the right height when they moved in to tap on the window and wave as they went by. Although they are taller now and have to bend down, they still tap on the window if they notice us in the kitchen. “My friend is with me today,” the littlest one called out through the glass recently. And right on cue, her friend bent down and waved.

There is another smaller child who always stops. She doesn’t tap, but gravely looks in, as if she’s trying to understand how our kitchen is different from hers. A few years ago when we had a cat, she would jump up on the window ledge every morning and wait for a child who always went by, presumably to nursery school, to put his face to the window and commune with her. She continued to do that every morning the next year, when he had obviously gone on to another school.

Not much really happens outside the windows, just as when people look in they’re not likely to see much going on inside. We might be cooking. I might be writing at the dining room table, which is visible if you look past the kitchen. We might have friends and family with us, but we’re not doing much of interest.

It’s the lack of anything dramatic that makes it so nice to look in and out, and I wish more people wouldn’t be afraid to open up their windows to the world.

The every-day monotony is reflective of the best of our lives. Like Alexander Pope’s prayer, we in this neighborhood actually have bread in the kitchen and peace. Whenever I look out the window, I understand how lucky we are.