My husband has informed me that he deserves a weekly column on my blog. He’d like to use it as a platform to voice his numerous concerns about our kitchen, but since he still prefers I don’t use his name, I’m denying him full access to posting.
This is today’s issue:
I hate the salad spinner. It’s a nuisance to clean, and that is my single metric for the worth of anything in our kitchen. I realize this is ridiculous–like judging the saws in my shop by what sort of sawdust they make–but cleaning represents my primary relationship with everything in the kitchen (except maybe the grill and the bottle opener). So I hate the salad spinner, and I take a perverse pleasure in the simple idea that it is plastic and brittle, and therefore will likely meet its end long before I do. I might even help it on its way.
I’m thinking of setting him up with a podcast. I’ll record what he says about my food, and you can laugh like I do. On the cauliflower, he waxed poetic about how the texture and sweetness balanced nicely with our salad, etc.
I wonder if he’ll ever find out I can buy salad spinners at the grocery store.