A few weeks ago, I finally plucked up the courage and went in … to the shadowy place at the back of the fridge where no hand ever goes (sorry if you were expecting something more daring). To be clear, our fridge is quite clean, relatively speaking: nothing oozes in its salad crisper; no cheese rind awaits death in the place where the butter lives. But the top shelf, where I keep jars, open but not yet empty, was becoming too crowded. In the front row, I could see a Kilner of gherkins and some Daylesford blackcurrant and violet jam bought (ha) with a recent win on EuroMillions, and neither looked to me as if they’d give us botulism. But the Lord alone knew what lurked behind. Something had to be done.
Two hours later, and the dishwasher was full of jars, and the bin of their (mostly unrecognisable) contents: a satisfying morning’s work, and one that got me thinking about what else in the kitchen I might profitably clean. The spice cupboard, which looks a bit dusty? The space I laughably call my pantry, which has lately taken on a somewhat forlorn aspect? What I absolutely did not consider, however, was joining the crowd by boiling my wooden spoons. I’m the child of a microbiologist. I hold to the notion that, broadly speaking, wood is naturally antibacterial. I’ve had the same chopping board for more than 15 years, and I’ve only ever wiped it with a damp, soapy cloth; no one has died so far.
