My toolbox

Today in the composition class I teach at a local community college, I had my students read a section from Stephen King's On Writing, in which he reflects on his grandfather's toolbox, and the tools that he has collected, as a writer. As my students and I wrote, following our discussion, I realized that the closest thing I have to a toolbox is in the kitchen.

My toolbox is in my kitchen. It’s not an actual toolbox. It’s my collection of cookbooks and recipes, passed down and clipped out. It is my drawer full of gadgets, from whisks and spatulas of all sizes to my mezzaluna and hand-me-down rolling pin. It is the knowledge I have gained over the years from Nigella and Julia, as well as my mom, aunts and grandmothers. It is my handwritten notes in the margins, of substitutions, variations and general comments. It is the splash of ingredients staining the pages of the old favorites I come back to again and again.

Not many people seem to cook anymore. I notice that when I’m at the grocery store, I’m one of the few people with actual ingredients, not just frozen items that will go into the microwave or oven. Just like it seems fewer and fewer people know how to change the oil in their own car, iron a shirt or sew on a button, it seems the art of cooking has been replaced by take out. While that makes me a little sad, it also makes me feel proud to be keeping the art alive.

My dad has an actual toolbox. So does my brother. So does my husband. I see the satisfaction they take away from a project well-done. I feel the same way when I have created something amazing in the kitchen. The moment that the castle-shaped bundt cake exits the pan in crisp-angled perfection, the instant the sugar carmelizes on top of my crème brulee. Even something as mundane as a weeknight dinner makes me feel proud when, “It smells like heaven in here,” is the first thing I hear from kids arriving home from school.

I hope that my kitchen toolbox never gets dusty, and that someday, someone else will use it and appreciate it as much as I do. I hope that my grandma’s sour cream cookie recipe, which was printed on the back of the memorial cards for her funeral, will always be the taste of Christmas, and that my mom’s cut-out cookie recipe will always be a part of special occasions. And I hope that someday, the things that I’m cooking for my family right now become part of the traditions they pass on to their own families.