This kitchen is like that of a ship. This goes here, that goes there.
In moments of chaos, if this tiny kitchen is in ship-shape, I can go to bed knowing it will all be as I left it when I start again in the morning.
I need something to be predictable.
I need the kettle to be filled before bed, slightly off center of the burner so as not to melt the handle. I need the shades to be drawn down so that the persistent light of the neighbor’s tv screen is hidden from view. I need the counters wiped down, the floor swept, the chairs tucked under the table so I don’t stub my toe as I sleepwalk to the bathroom in my glasses-less state at 2am. I need space on the windowsill for the black cat to sit, the bathmat hanging over the tub to dry.
I don’t like going to bed if everything isn’t in its right place.
An incomplete list of essential kitchen items found on our pegboard wall:
two copper-bottomed pots (originally from my parents’ wedding registry)
two colanders, one stainless that Brendan dislikes, one plastic that I dislike
ice pop molds, yellow
measuring spoons, red
one Swedish hatchet in its leather sheath
one bundle of dried herbs from good neighbors who used to live downstairs but have moved away as far as you can move
one handmade potholder from good neighbors who live very nearby
a handful of chopsticks, take a pair and the rest come tumbling down from their holster
knives, knives, knives, knives, big knifes, small Japanese wooden-handled knife
one metal button: THINK POSITIVE
old fashioned egg beater
old fashioned meat tenderizer
microplane, careful it’ll take your skin off
mandolin, careful it’ll take your fingertips off!
french fry cutter, used when the girls were little babies to cut up veggies for easy gripping/baby-led-weaning
29 banana stickers
tapes: packing, painters, electrical, masking, gorilla — hung on climbing rope and threaded through a carabiner
ladle, spatula, turner, two wooden spoons, metal tongs, wooden tongs
spider thing for lifting out hot hot stuff
two frying pans, wait — three frying pans, one of which is cast iron
two sauce pots
one hammer
one trivet
one pair of scissors
These are the tools of a life, every one of them of use. I like to think of how many times I’ve stirred with this wooden spoon, how many terra cotta pots I’ve bashed into pieces, how many cloves of garlic minced by the knife I like best. I am alone in this kitchen this week. I am grateful for the tools, for the food shared, for my quick thinking when the girls ask what’s for dinner and I respond as I do to so many of their questions: I don’t know yet.