A Few of my Favorite Things

It's not been a very eventful week at the homestead. Steve didn't drop dead on the floor, slap me, or pack his things and hop on a Greyhound when I sprung the new puppy on him. I've not done any new renovations or found myself in some wacky scenario involving dogs/power tools/peanut butter that I've felt compelled to write about. Nope, it's been altogether plain around here lately, so I've decided to dedicate this entry to inanimate objects I feel passionately about. I've photographed them, you may name them if you so choose.

Love:
1. Glass fruit and vegetables. The all-white set was made by my aunt Mair in the 70s. I love it! I've photographed it as a still life and given it a fine display in the center of my table.

2. Copper mixer. It's true you're prone to dropping the tiny pin that keeps your motor running into any moderately thick batter, but you look so beautiful malfunctioning that I just can't hate you.

3. Kitchen window. Even though I can really only see into my neighbor's porch, you do wonders for my plants. They've never been happier, my lonely little clipping has become a small rainforest. I think I see tiny Lemers in there.

4. Ikea French press. The cheapest of all the ones I've owned and smashed, you're sturdy, Swedish, and more importantly, quiet in the morning.

5. Cast iron pot. Oh the soups we've made! The meats we've braised! You are a miracle of cooking. With you I am Julia Child (but cuter, I hope. Maybe Giotta DeLaurentis but with a smaller head. I'll keep the boobs though, thanks.)

6. Washer and dryer - with no coin slots. No worries about what weird muummuu wearing neighbor lady has just washed in you, no endless digging for quarters that, for the last time, are NOT buried at the bottom of the approximately eleventy-billion smelly pennies.

7. Giant, non-Friday the 13th basement. So well-lit, warm, clean and uncluttered. I'm not having kids just so I don't have to store their crap.

Hate
1. You, old, crusty oven. I hate you with the fire of one thousand suns (or the heat of 100 actual, functioning ovens.) I hate how even after a thorough cleaning, your broiler sends out enough smoke to get me rescued off a desert island. I hate that I can barely fit a small roasting chicken in you. What are you, a vegetarian?

2. And you, cooktop. Overlooking the fact that you're electric, God help me, you have no visible settings. You are Stevie Wonder's cooktop. But at least you're better than your friend the vegetarian oven.