Who knew that my tiny kitchen could grow up to be so big? Maybe you did, for I surely didn't. It took for you to share your eyes with me for me to see all the possibilities that my kitchen had to offer.
I have a pot of navy bean soup heating on the stove right now. It's simmering away in an old pot, well, it looks old as far as it's style is concerned. Not old as in antique or even collectable, but old in that it served it's time in some eatery out there in the real world and looks beat. It's commercial gear, a three quart or more pot with an exquisitely long handle, nothing fancy. Aluminum, which is funny for me to have considering I lectured you on the "evils" of that kind of cook gear years ago. You had your grandma's pots back then and I hope you still do. Knowing you you kept your own counsel on those pots and pans and ignored my sage advice. I'm sure you kept them because you loved them. If so, good for you. Now I have my own.
I have more than my share of pots and pans these days, that's for sure. My basement is full to brimming with stuff that migrated over from the little house. There was plenty down there to begin with but now it's almost claustraphobic with goods of all kinds, stacked willy nilly in every corner. What really takes up space more than anything else are all those kitchen gee gaws I've accumulated. I don't know why I found collecting that stuff so important to do but I did. Well, I do know why. I wanted to pass along trunks full of cooking gear to the kids, packed tight with heavy duty bowls and good quality knives and commercial cookgear, stuff that I never had when I took off into the world. There are a lot of things you don't know that you need when you first establish yourself in a brand new apartment. All that pre-emptive gathering will hopefully take a little bit of the mystery out of setting up their first kitchens.
I don't think I would have ever really thought about that, about pulling together those kitchen goods, if you hadn't of come along, if you hadn't renewed my desire to impress, if you hadn't made cooking for someone a pleasure again. See, the way I was, the skills I sported, the gear I had on hand was enough. Or so I thought. I had a small amount of fairly standard gear, had it around for years, all heavy duty, hard core stuff that continued to hold up, never seemed wear out or need replacing. I had my Revere Ware, my cast iron skillets, my stainless steel untensils, all that. Restaurant bowls and coffee cups, non-descript crockery, purloined beer glasses, nothing fancy, all sturdy and basic. All well and good. But then you turned me on to cookbooks, and I found, like with home repair, that the mantra still held fast: "the right tool for the right job". So, I started to accumulate used kitchen gear, new tools for new skills. And I haven't looked back since.
In accumulating stuff you find that you can't keep it all. You discover that there's also pleasure in giving. Finding kitchen stuff to give to you was one of the little side benefits for inspiring in me to get in that kitchen again. What inspired me to get you that acrylic pepper grinder? Was it because you needed one, never having had one? What was it that made me seek out for you that cast iron skillet? Was it the latest application of our famous clafouti recipe? Why did I need to find a five quart stainless steel pot for you? Was it for split pea soup or was it for pinto beans? I can't remember, but I do know that I last passed along a very nice French five quart enameled cast iron casserole to you last spring. I have to wonder what you managed to pull off in that pot.
See, the pleasure was in giving back to you the gift that you gave to me. It was a return on your investment, your investment in me, in time, in our friendship, that paid off in a multitude of ways, mostly new skills that I could share with you, but also in something you can't weigh, and that was a new found sense of confidence. Things can only say so much, but they are tangible goods, things that sit on your shelf or in your cupboard that stand as stark reminders of affection and friendship. I know that you couldn't take home the blue ceramic tea pots or the stovetop espresso maker I gave you for your birthday, but you did take home that Japanese bowl I picked up for you when Don was here and you did manage to keep, from what I can tell, the Wallace coffee cup that was squirreled away in your Captain Nemo trunk. You couldn't go home with a full out birthday cheesecake but you could slip under the wire cookbooks to add to cookbook collection,some that would hopefully inspire cheesecake baking in your home. I had no problem setting up your kitchen with little things, my dear, because already gave me the biggest gift of them all: you helped bring me and my kitchen back to life.
A life for a life, as it were.
So, my soup is hot and ready and I'm hungry for breakfast. My presspot of coffee is long gone. The rolls that are toasting were baked last night, sourdough generated from scratch. Later today I'll bake something, maybe a galette, maybe a lemon pie, and when I do, baby, I'll dedicate it to you.
Who knew that there was so much to do in that small kitchen of mine? For years I swung away at dishes that I knew, became proficient then got bored with it all. You came along with your recipe sense and blew out the walls of my life. That of mine kitchen is as big as the world now. Yeah, it's a whole new world, and it's all thanks to you.
Now, come help me make sense of that basement. Some of it's your doing, you know!
Your WHMB
I have a pot of navy bean soup heating on the stove right now. It's simmering away in an old pot, well, it looks old as far as it's style is concerned. Not old as in antique or even collectable, but old in that it served it's time in some eatery out there in the real world and looks beat. It's commercial gear, a three quart or more pot with an exquisitely long handle, nothing fancy. Aluminum, which is funny for me to have considering I lectured you on the "evils" of that kind of cook gear years ago. You had your grandma's pots back then and I hope you still do. Knowing you you kept your own counsel on those pots and pans and ignored my sage advice. I'm sure you kept them because you loved them. If so, good for you. Now I have my own.
I have more than my share of pots and pans these days, that's for sure. My basement is full to brimming with stuff that migrated over from the little house. There was plenty down there to begin with but now it's almost claustraphobic with goods of all kinds, stacked willy nilly in every corner. What really takes up space more than anything else are all those kitchen gee gaws I've accumulated. I don't know why I found collecting that stuff so important to do but I did. Well, I do know why. I wanted to pass along trunks full of cooking gear to the kids, packed tight with heavy duty bowls and good quality knives and commercial cookgear, stuff that I never had when I took off into the world. There are a lot of things you don't know that you need when you first establish yourself in a brand new apartment. All that pre-emptive gathering will hopefully take a little bit of the mystery out of setting up their first kitchens.
I don't think I would have ever really thought about that, about pulling together those kitchen goods, if you hadn't of come along, if you hadn't renewed my desire to impress, if you hadn't made cooking for someone a pleasure again. See, the way I was, the skills I sported, the gear I had on hand was enough. Or so I thought. I had a small amount of fairly standard gear, had it around for years, all heavy duty, hard core stuff that continued to hold up, never seemed wear out or need replacing. I had my Revere Ware, my cast iron skillets, my stainless steel untensils, all that. Restaurant bowls and coffee cups, non-descript crockery, purloined beer glasses, nothing fancy, all sturdy and basic. All well and good. But then you turned me on to cookbooks, and I found, like with home repair, that the mantra still held fast: "the right tool for the right job". So, I started to accumulate used kitchen gear, new tools for new skills. And I haven't looked back since.
In accumulating stuff you find that you can't keep it all. You discover that there's also pleasure in giving. Finding kitchen stuff to give to you was one of the little side benefits for inspiring in me to get in that kitchen again. What inspired me to get you that acrylic pepper grinder? Was it because you needed one, never having had one? What was it that made me seek out for you that cast iron skillet? Was it the latest application of our famous clafouti recipe? Why did I need to find a five quart stainless steel pot for you? Was it for split pea soup or was it for pinto beans? I can't remember, but I do know that I last passed along a very nice French five quart enameled cast iron casserole to you last spring. I have to wonder what you managed to pull off in that pot.
See, the pleasure was in giving back to you the gift that you gave to me. It was a return on your investment, your investment in me, in time, in our friendship, that paid off in a multitude of ways, mostly new skills that I could share with you, but also in something you can't weigh, and that was a new found sense of confidence. Things can only say so much, but they are tangible goods, things that sit on your shelf or in your cupboard that stand as stark reminders of affection and friendship. I know that you couldn't take home the blue ceramic tea pots or the stovetop espresso maker I gave you for your birthday, but you did take home that Japanese bowl I picked up for you when Don was here and you did manage to keep, from what I can tell, the Wallace coffee cup that was squirreled away in your Captain Nemo trunk. You couldn't go home with a full out birthday cheesecake but you could slip under the wire cookbooks to add to cookbook collection,some that would hopefully inspire cheesecake baking in your home. I had no problem setting up your kitchen with little things, my dear, because already gave me the biggest gift of them all: you helped bring me and my kitchen back to life.
A life for a life, as it were.
So, my soup is hot and ready and I'm hungry for breakfast. My presspot of coffee is long gone. The rolls that are toasting were baked last night, sourdough generated from scratch. Later today I'll bake something, maybe a galette, maybe a lemon pie, and when I do, baby, I'll dedicate it to you.
Who knew that there was so much to do in that small kitchen of mine? For years I swung away at dishes that I knew, became proficient then got bored with it all. You came along with your recipe sense and blew out the walls of my life. That of mine kitchen is as big as the world now. Yeah, it's a whole new world, and it's all thanks to you.
Now, come help me make sense of that basement. Some of it's your doing, you know!
Your WHMB
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