Eight wooden spoons, a spider sieve, a rubber spatula, a small wooden fork, a skewer, a strand of spaghetti (raw, for testing cakes), salad servers, a pair of tongs that aren’t as helpful as they look, and a friend’s ladle that I don’t want to give back: these things live in a wide pot, with handles like sticky-out ears, by the stove. An ordinary set-up that, despite the constant in-and-out, is extraordinarily constant.
While the rest of the kitchen is a game of moving and missing, the pot contents are so reliable that it’s almost as if there is sorcery involved. For this, I love the pot and its contents even more, especially the wooden spoons, which know better than me about keeping everything together. Not that you would know this by looking at them: with their scorched necks and skinny, dry handles, they seem abused rather than loved. Someone once suggested I scrub them with baking soda, leave to dry for two days, then massage with olive oil. And I will, when I clean the oven.
