Photo by Sarah Shull on UnsplashMy hobby is collecting kitchen utensils. The collection is expanding, and I no longer have space in the kitchen for the pestles and mortars, the chopping boards, the graters, the nests of colanders. Every single cupboard is chockablock with items of varying sizes and colours, bought online or during visits to Divertimenti. Some are still pristine in their packaging. They’ve never been used and have their price tags on. I’ve stored them in the garden shed, in the garage, under the bed.
My obsession with buying kitchenware started last year, a few weeks after my fortieth birthday. Do you need all this junk? my husband asks. It verges on the unhealthy, he says. Slow down, he says. But what does he know? I love my collection and the way it fills every little space, every crack, like sweet batter, week after week, as I count the days. A few of my favourites are charming and quirky: the carrot sharpener, the strawberry stem remover, the citrus juice sprayer, the prawn peeler and, of course, my set of chorks (chopsticks on one end and fork on the other). Quite entertaining for someone who’s given up her job and has plenty of time on her hands. I talk about my collection to my therapist, and she nods her head as if she understands. She also asks when I last had my period. Once, she asked me to say a word which begins with F, and I said forceps. She dropped her smile, changed the subject.
No use crying over spilt milk, she said last time I was there, or maybe she didn’t use that exact expression, because it isn’t milk that’s being spilled here. It’s the yolk which oozes and drips and can’t keep still in any of my hundreds of pots and frying pans. As I tap the fingers of one hand on the kitchen table, the egg timer is ticking. I have yet to make the perfect egg.
