"Height times width," he muttered, scribbling on a napkin. "Fourteen square feet. Easy."
He headed to the tile shop and picked out a beautiful, deep-emerald subway tile. He asked the clerk for exactly fourteen square feet.
He rushed back to the store, but Martha’s shop was closed for the weekend. When he finally returned on Monday, he discovered a devastating truth: the shop had started a new "batch" or dye lot. The emerald green in the new boxes was a hair lighter than the ones on his wall. how much tile to buy for backsplash
Then came the "herringbone catastrophe." Leo had decided to tilt the tiles for a focal point behind the stove. Every tile at the edge needed a complex 45-degree cut. By the time he reached the final corner of the kitchen, he reached into the box and felt nothing but cardboard. He was three tiles short.
The clerk, an older woman named Martha who had seen a thousand "Leos" in her time, peered over her glasses. "You’re going to want at least 10% more than that, sugar. Call it sixteen square feet." "Height times width," he muttered, scribbling on a napkin
The first time Leo stood in his kitchen with a tape measure, he felt like a math genius. His backsplash area was a simple rectangle behind the stove and a long strip under the cabinets.
Leo sat on his kitchen floor, staring at the small, bare patch of drywall that would now forever be a slightly different shade of green—a permanent monument to the . He asked the clerk for exactly fourteen square feet
Leo chuckled. "I’m a precise cutter, Martha. I don’t plan on breaking anything." He bought the fourteen and left.