Kitchen Things

I used to always envy people whose kitchen contains things that truly belong to them. That would mean they bought it alone or together with the person they are with and have been for as long as they have not been single. That to me is a sole source kitchen, Mine is not but I have seen others that are even more heterogenous than mine - to the point where none of the significant objects in it share a common story. I stayed at R's as a room-mate way back in the day. She told me I was free to use the kitchen and store my stuff in the pantry and fridge as needed. This was her home and she was room-mating to feel less alone after her husband died. That kitchen had things from three different families going back to the 1960s when R had newly immigrated to America. They were sharing a place with two other families at the time. Then there was stuff from adult children who moved in and out over the years before they finally move to their own homes. 

Sometimes there was a significant other of the R's kid who might have come with their set of things to her kitchen and then never took it at the time of leaving. Finally, there was us room-mates - a revolving door of women who came and went. In the midst of all this clamor of stuff from all over the place there was this one saucepan R made a point to call everyone's attention to. It belonged to her mother and she had owned it her whole adult life. We could use anything we wanted in that kitchen but that saucepan - never. Upon my recommendation R hung it to a hook on the wall across from the stove so it was plainly in sight and there could be no doubt about which saucepan was out of bounds.

Certain kitchen objects become loaded with meaning in a way that we are not fully in control of. You can’t predict which will be the utensils you get attached to – the favourite mug, the spoon that feels just right in your hand – and which belongings decline over time into clutter. And then there are the objects that – even if they were made in some anonymous factory and bought in some anonymous shop – seem to carry with them a kind of magic. There is the plate that makes everything you put on it taste better, or the bowl you keep but can’t actually bear to use because it reminds you too strongly of the person who gave it to you.