Wait — where do I put the flour again?
They say that siblings can always find their way around each others’ kitchens. I could go to my brother’s kitchen, for instance, and intuitively know where he keeps his knives, his plates, his colander.
The theory, and it makes sense to me, is that we tend to set up our kitchens in a way that is familiar to us. That is, we unconsciously mimic the kitchens that we grew up with. When it comes to kitchen placement, our parents’ influence extends beyond mere DNA.
But what about when you set up your own kitchen and then you can’t find anything in it?
I recently returned to our newspaper office after a hiatus of 15 months. I walked in the door, my editor said, “Dan! You’re here!” and I said, “Of course I’m here. It’s Monday, March 16, 2020. Why wouldn’t I be here?”
My desk was, disappointingly, unchanged. And then I went to the test kitchen.
The test kitchen is the kitchen that the newspaper thoughtfully built for me and my successors when we moved to this new building less than two years ago. I set it up myself, so everything would be exactly where I wanted it.
And now I don’t know where the heck anything is.
I was looking for measuring cups, which are the sort of thing you would expect to find just where you need them, so they are always at hand.
The kitchen has 10 sets of cabinets. I opened all 10 before I found them.
And now, to write that last paragraph, I went back to the kitchen to count the cabinets. I looked for the measuring cups again, and I had to open two sets of cabinets to find them. These are cups I had found just a couple of days ago and had reminded myself they were exactly where they belonged, and it still took me two tries to find them again.
Still, looking for them was an adventure. It was like Christmas. In one cabinet, I found a set of glass mixing bowls that I had completely forgotten we had.
“Oh,” I thought. “Those are nice. I’m glad we have those.”
In another cabinet I had a stack of pie pans and a stack of cake pans that I had also forgotten.
“Oh,” I thought. “Those are nice. I’m glad we have those.”
On the other hand, I went looking for forks and spoons and glasses with considerably less success — and I even knew where they were supposed to be. Technically, I suppose, I knew where I thought they were supposed to be, and I guessed right.
But that didn’t help, because they weren’t there. I found the silverware drawer with no trouble, and the cabinet below it is supposed to hold the glassware.
But there were no forks and no spoons, and few glasses. There were plenty of knives, though — maybe even more knives than were in the drawer when I last opened it. I have given this matter some thought, and I now believe that, over the past 16 months, the forks and spoons have transitioned into knives.
My biggest concern, obviously, was the refrigerator. In my innocence, I had stocked it full of milk. And eggs. And raw chicken breasts. And, I don’t know — probably some fresh fish.
It was therefore with some trepidation that I opened the refrigerator door for the first time in a year and a quarter. I looked inside and found — nothing bad, actually. A few lunches for my colleagues (I share the refrigerator with the newsroom). Some capers. A jar of peanut butter. Somebody’s still-fresh salsa.
Apparently, the COVID elves, bless them, kept the fridge nice and clean in my absence.
I mean, it wasn’t full of forks and spoons, but I was glad to see it neat and tidy.
