I’d really like to have a teapot and a French rolling pin (the kind with tapered ends). Then again, I’d like not to succumb to drifting melancholy. (Not the fun kind, but the kind that leaves you in flaccid lassitude with no sense of perspective or proportion and prompts you to be harder on yourself than you maybe really ought to be.)
Understand: This isn’t an exhortation or a confession or anything particularly meaningful. More an experiment. A contention with the desires of our different selves, as the components of those selves meet and go at it for supremacy (or accord. Or – perhaps direct conflict in search of dominance is the root of most genuine accords. That remains to be seen, may never be seen. Except by our eventual AI overlords).
I’d also like to have my very own kitchen, impervious to the carelessness of others. A big fancy range with six gas burners, a grill. A pasta arm over that stove. But, you must understand, all that in a very modest house. And it would be built for function, not looks. Maybe some whimsical tiles on a backsplash somewhere, strategic placement of fine beautiful wood (if practical and not too pricey). But mostly just practical, stainless steel everything, a drain in the floor.
Call me crazy but it seems a folly and a madness to fantasize about my theoretical kitchen. A house? Remodeling, contractors, the sheer outlay involved and the planning and the implicit stability of owning a thing that expensive? I just can’t see it. I dream rather of a coming chaos, when all these prim notions will be seen for the absurd diversions they are. Or maybe that’s just a way of absolving myself of the responsibility of planning for the future.
Either way: My most immediate want is simply to be well and have my (perfectly adequate, completely dreamy if you give perspective half a chance) kitchen to be clean.