A Quiet Moment in the Kitchen
On tools, routines, and the comfort of order.
On the weekends, when we tidy the kitchen after a meal—drying and putting away bowls, plates, and tools—I often feel a quiet excitement. Over the past decade, we have accumulated a collection of tools chosen slowly and deliberately, mostly made of glass, metal, ceramics, or wood.
Some are souvenirs from our travels—Tokyo, Kyoto, the South of France—filled with memories as much as function. Others are simple objects: the REX peeler universal to every Swiss kitchen, metal bowls in various sizes, old milk bottles I never returned, cheap wooden scrapers with worn edges.
Simplicity is key: you might find our cutlery and the Duralex glasses in any French bistro, the white porcelain an everyday design by Jasper Morrison, two classic Dutch ovens, and a selection of well-made pans and knives. Wooden boards are stacked neatly on the counter. They are scarred from years of use. Now and then, we rub them with walnut oil in a small act of care.
My partner’s tendency to keep things in perfect order has rubbed off on me. There is no junk drawer, no frantic search for lids or scissors. I love knowing exactly where things are and where to find the right tool—a spoon, a grater, a bowl—before even opening a drawer.
As I hang the dish towel to dry, my eyes wander across the scrubbed stainless steel worktop. After more than ten years, it has developed a beautiful patina. Everything is back in its place. Only a few things remain on the counter, each chosen with intention.
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