by Rose Madeline Mula

“And you’re saving this why??”

So asked my friend Alex, pulling a perfectly good coffee pot out of one of my kitchen cabinets.  Granted, the handle had fallen off seven years ago; but I was sure I’d get it fixed eventually.  And so what if I had three other coffee pots?  It’s always good to have spares.  I didn’t admit to Alex that I seldom used any of them.  I brew coffee only for company.   For myself, I use instant.  Okay, okay!  I know most people consider that an abomination; but my unsophisticated palate can’t tell the difference between Starbucks and imitation-coffee-flavored hot water.

“A rolling pin?” Alex continued, still  rummaging,  “When did you last use this?”

Actually, never.  I have to admit the closest I’ve ever come to baking a home-made pie is to throw some instant pudding into a store-bought crust.  And pizza?  Why would I try to compete with Papa Gino, especially when he delivers?  But the rolling pin had belonged to my mother (who actually used it to make pies, pizzas, pastas. and dozens of other delicious delicacies).  She died twenty-five years ago.   How could I throw it out?  Ditto the flour strainer, the fat separator, the cookie cutters, and a dozen other thing-a-ma-jigs that have been languishing unused since her passing.  Why keep them, Alex wanted to know.  Not only because they were my Mom’s, I said; but, also, you never know when I might get the urge to bake a cake or a batch of cookies — and if I miraculously decide to roast a turkey some day, that fat separator would certainly be useful for making gravy.  Furthermore, if I can figure out what the other gizmos are, I might find them very handy.

Lest you think that Alex has some nerve invading my kitchen and criticizing my utensils, I had invited (in fact, begged) him to do exactly that.

I’ve always prided myself on keeping my home neat and clutter-free, you see, at least on the surface.  But lately I’ve had a recurring nightmare:  I leave home some day for a mundane errand and never come back because I have a heart attack or stroke, or I’m carted off to psycho ward because I snap and go berserk when I can’t remember where I parked my car (which actually happened to a friend).  But that’s not the worst part of my dream.  Next I see my relatives coming into my home, admiring it — and then opening my cabinets, drawers, and closets …  At that point, I wake up in a cold sweat.

Alex never has such a nightmare, I’m sure.   His kitchen, for example, is pristine — no duplicate wooden spoons, no pot covers that don’t fit any pots, only one cutting board (“Why do you need five?” he asked.),  and no cabinets that spill their contents when their doors are opened.  In fact, he actually has two completely empty cabinets and a refrigerator with gleaming bare shelves.  I covet his kitchen.  I want mine to look like that.  But I don’t want to have to give up anything — including the toppling pile of plastic containers and mismatched lids that fit none of them — to achieve that goal.  Clearly, I had a dilemma.

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