I seem to always find myself in the kitchen either cooking or cleaning or eating. I am usually with my family, but even when by myself, I am never truly alone. When I look around I see that I am always surrounded by the cooking appliances and pots and implements that help me, and those I care about, live. Though I am usually so busy racing to get the next meal cooked or dish washed or morsel chewed, I do try to pause amongst the craziness of my life and think.
I think about my toaster always taking plain, limp, lifeless bread products and turning them into bronzed, rock-hard Gods and Goddesses that I long to slather with butter or peanut butter especially on Thursdays. I can imagine him saying "Once, just once, I want someone to toast me. Not sure why, just seems like it would be fun."
I look towards my ladle - long and smooth and slender - we couldn't be any more different physically unless I finally caved in and paid for the plastic surgery that everyone is always hinting and clearing their throat's about. And yet, on the inside, I feel like we are the same. We both want to scoop large, steaming cups of soup in our arms - hold them close to us for a fleeting emotional moment where we feel more complete and at peace with the universe than ever before, but then we must pour them slowly and mournfully into a cold, uncaring bowl with a large degree of remorse all-the-while knowing that this is the order of things. Oh, and we also both want to spoon with other ladle-shaped objects, but those opportunities are few and far between.
I think about my chef's knife. So long, lean, sharp and metallic. We are so alike in so many ways aside from my inability to slice tomatoes without making a total mess and her inability to solve even the simplest of quadratic equations.
My eyes gaze at my mortar and pestle - always grinding things up into pastes and powders. Though a tad gruff and always all-business, a valuable ally to have on my side when I'm invariably attacked and pelted with peppercorns, cumin seeds and mint leaves each autumn.
I think about my ice cube maker always churning and whirring and popping out small cubes of frozen bliss. I can almost hear it say in the lull between cycles "Water comes in, I mold it and shape it and freeze it and out pops ice. It's really pretty simple - not sure what you are confused about. It's not rocket science and I would know as I once worked in rocket science....don't act so surprised."
I look at the steamer and reminisce about all of those times when I've poured cold water in and a few breathless minutes later I've sat at the table and enjoyed some freshly cooked vegetables and throughout it all the steamer has always been there, silently working away without a peep and all I've had to put up with is a steady stream of pro-communist literature that, while I'm not currently interested, is quite impressive with its word choice and perfect grammar, for a steamer.
I think about my collection of shiny forks and marvel at how adept they are at enabling me to easily pick food off a plate and place it in my mouth while also being the biggest whiners and complainers about having to share such a small space with those crazy, unpredictable knives and a-little-too-obsessed-with-their-curves spoons.
My mind turns to my vegetable peeler and I can nearly hear it saying "true, I can remove peels from vegetables and fruits and yes, I can also make thin ribbons of certain vegetables and, of course, I am thin and light and unassuming, but know this, if you cross me or my family, I will be your worst nightmare."
I think about my cutting board always being whacked with knives and stained with juices and treated like nothing more than a block to chop on and I imagine that it not only has complex feelings and deep thoughts, but also wishes it was more three dimensional.
I think about my large soup pot towering over the rest of the small cooking vessels that literally and figuratively can't hold the soup that it can and yet, despite its brash and proud demeanour, I can almost hear him whisper "Yes I may be tall, and yes I may be large, and yes I know the other smaller pots and pans not only look to me for guidance in these harrowing times in which we pots live, and yes I may be able to hold litres upon litres of mouth-watering soup, but I would give it all up to feel true love regardless of my inability to feel emotions based on my being a pot and all."
I think about my oven mitts - keeping my calloused, aging, sensitive hands safe from the heat that aims to burn me and how do I show those brave heroic gloves how much I care and honour them? I wear them to help me imitate a seal, which they happen to find both abusive and quite hilarious.
I think about my brand new red food processor with its sharp, spinning blades. He looks so serious as he sits there, imposingly, on the counter, demanding attention and awe from all those around based on the sheer limitless capabilities that he seems to possess. When the revolution comes, I'll be glad he's on my side up until the moment when my comic relief and way with words is outweighed by my superfluousness.
I think about the worn and weathered wooden spoon that has seen it all in its time in the kitchen: bubbly and warm casseroles, hot and sizzling stir fries, sweet and aromatic bread puddings and through it all, he always shows up on time, never complaining even when new splinters have appeared overnight. He just does his job. I guess I should give him his stuffed animals back now.
I think about my grater and can almost see the extreme pleasure she gains whenever she shreds something except on those rare occasions when she either accidentally or is forced to grate someone she truly cares about. "It's true," she is probably always moaning to anyone nearby with ears (which is actually almost no one) "it is as my mother always told me as a child but I just refused to believe, you always do grate the ones you love."
My mind turns to my plastic measuring spoons each one slightly larger, and thus more egotistical, than the one before. Time and time again they have demonstrated their ability to measure small amounts of food items with a precision that is growing more and more rare in the modern world in which we live. If only they were collectively and individually more humble.
I think about the backsplash and can imagine it saying "you can splatter me with sauce, you can splash me with hot water, you can douse me with soapy bubbles and you can even throw vegetables scraps at me when frustrated but you can never take away my dignity, my sense of worth, my right to vote and my girlish looks."
I am eying my sink and can't help but admire its shine and its drain and its sense of humour in these dark and depressing times in which we live and, when no one is watching, I am often tempted to not only share my innermost secrets and gambling strategies but also my overly dramatized tales of love that I plan to turn into a series of graphic novels.
My focus turns to my garlic press whom I have a sneaking suspicion is either a spy or a mole or, at a minimum, at least partially to blame of the spike in my anxiety, near-paralyzing self-doubt and garlic breath.
I think about my chopsticks and instantly remember the nightmares of my youth where I was living in a world inhabited by large, wooden, tyrannical chopsticks that not only enforced a curfew and had me living in a constant state of fear, but, even after they eventually embraced democracy, still gave me sliver after sliver after sliver.
I think about my large, well-used frying pan that has helped me create countless incredible and filling meals that have helped my children grow and given me the strength to go out into the world an make a difference and I can almost hear it say "stop caressing my handle, sicko."
