Tidy is easy. Lovely is harder. The work below is what Ricki delivers when a client wants a space that feels like a private room — every jar in its place, every heel in its cubby, every square inch working the way it should.

From spice jars to canned tomatoes to the arborio reserved for Sunday risotto. A pantry that finally behaves itself — and stays that way past the first week.
Canned goods stacked in pairs. Cereal boxes that face forward. The shelf nobody photographs — until Ricki touches it.



Star anise next to saffron next to seven kinds of seasoning blend. A Saturday of work, paying back every weeknight.
Door rack to back wall, floor tile to ceiling shelf. The space the family actually uses, finally working as hard as it should.

Matched wood hangers, colors grouped light to dark, tops separated from bottoms. The closet you can actually get dressed in — without opening three doors to find one thing.


Suitcases up top where they belong. Blazers on one wall, day dresses on another. Folded stacks where folded things go. Nothing improvised.
Color-run left to right, on a shared height so the eye reads the whole row at once. Small choice. Big daily difference.

Individual cells so heels don't kiss, don't scuff, don't disappear. A dedicated column for the handbags, upright, visible, respected. This is what a shoe collection is supposed to look like.
Every pair displayed like a small piece of art. The reds with the reds, the blacks with the blacks, the ones you save for the night out on the shelf you can reach.


Overhead storage for the bins. Slat wall for the brooms, the ladder, the step-stool. Cabinets for the unglamorous. Epoxy floor because you deserve to walk in and feel it.


Slat wall for the daily-drivers, ceiling shelf for the seasonal. The red totes for Christmas, the green for spring. You know where everything lives, because it lives somewhere.
A garage that isn't fighting you. Nothing on the ground that shouldn't be. Just space — the kind you forgot you were paying for.
Ricki spent three days in my pantry and I have not stopped showing it off. Every jar has a name, every shelf has a logic, and three weeks later it is still — to my astonishment — exactly the way she left it.
A pantry is not a storage problem. It's a decision you only have to make once — if you build it right.
That's the whole job. Tell Ricki what's driving you crazy, and she'll tell you what it looks like fixed — and how long it takes to get there.
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