I’ve got a question for you, I bet it’s one you don’t think about often – What’s your favorite kitchen utensil/tool? What could you not live without?  Think about it, take all the time you need.

Anyone who prepares food in a kitchen, has a favorite knife, mixing bowl, whisk, pan, or other utensil or tool.

Personally, I didn’t fully realize this until we moved to the other side of the world, and I was struck by the thought that I should have kept my favorite spatula and bought it with me. 

It was a solid red rubber spatula, sturdy feeling, and fit perfectly into the palm of my hand. It had a stainless steel core and could be used in temps up to 450° F. I had not realized until I did not have it anymore, that it really stepped up my cooking game. It was my go-to tool for stirring, scraping, mixing, folding, and shallow frying, every time I cooked. A bad workman might blame his tools, but what does it make you when you just miss your favorite tool?

Suddenly I was dirtying every potential utensil available, every time I cooked, trying to find the perfect thing to use. No luck. Nothing felt right in my hand. Eventually, I would settle on something that would be able to do the job, but it wasn’t the same. 

It didn’t scrape the sides evenly when I was making thick soups, and couldn’t cleanly take the eggs off the bottom of the pan when scrambling, it didn’t fold the mashed potatoes just right before serving and it didn’t nicely divide the onions when keeping them to the side while cooking other ingredients.

Every time I cooked, I would lament my decision to give the best spatula ever to the thrift store.

I gave myself a hard time until I remembered that besides packing up a house, ending one life tidily in one country, while casting lines into the new one, as well as dealing with customs, visa applications and flights, and a four-year-old and everyday life and bill paying and working and packing, and the fact that we still had to eat food three times a day, the significance of thinking about whether or not you’ll need your favorite spatula kind of escapes you. 

But once we were on the other side of the world and relatively settled though, I would search out kitchen stores, looking for a worthy replacement. I never found one.

It was about that time I started to take notice of the other kitchen dishes and utensils I took for granted but loved so much. 

There was my extensive bowl collection. And the ramekins, which were really just smaller bowls. My industrially built whisk, again with a sold handle that fit nicely into my hand, and my wok. 

I can’t help but notice the fact that we generally tie our favorite kitchen tools and utensils directly to our sense of home. To our sense of security and belonging somewhere, and without it, things feel off. It’s funny the things we become attached to, it’s usually not intentional, we just gravitate toward these items. 

When my Nana died, my mother asked if there was anything I wanted of hers from my grandparent’s house. I immediately thought of her button tin, it wasn’t particularly fantastic, just an old 8-inch tall, 3-inch round tin with a vibrant wallpaper pattern of greens and oranges and yellow, worn into it, and it was filled with buttons. Hundreds, if not thousands of them. Buttons of all shapes and sizes. Some were big and bright, some were tiny and jewel-toned, there were gold and silver ones, geometrically shaped ones, flat ones, black sparkly ones, white pearlescent ones, and each was perfect. I used to love that button tin, it was like magic to me. I would imagine the garments they came off, the big coats or lady-like dainty cardigans, shirts, dresses, or trousers. I would sort them out by color and shape, spreading them all over the table, talking to my grandmother, or just listening to her tell me stories of past fashions and sometimes making craft projects with them, mostly just taking them all in, fascinated by the intricate details on such small and important yet somewhat insignificant things. 

I was somewhat taken aback a month or so later, when my mother gave me a plastic shopping bag tied off like dog poop, with the buttons in it. I asked her what happened to the tin they were in, “Oh that old thing? You don’t want that, I threw it away.”  

“Oh,” was all I could say at the time. I cried later that night though when I was alone. My connection to my beloved grandmother was seemingly lost. 

It wasn’t until much later I realized my connection to my grandmother was through my heart and soul, not material possessions. I will always have those memories of the button tin and my nana.

It’s OK, though, we ended up back in the U.S a couple of years later, and lo and behold, I found the same spatula in a kitchen surplus store, and everything was good in the world. 

Although I keep track of the items I would take with me if I ever did move countries again. And you can bet that spatula will be in my carry-on.