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How much cookware does a woman need?
On my hands and knees in front of a kitchen cupboard the other day, I couldn't help thinking of Leo Tolstoy. He penned the famous short story, "How Much Land Does a Man Need?" As I was digging through a pile of muffin tins and plastic tubs, searching in vain for a 9x13-inch cake pan, I had to ask myself, "Just how much cookware does one woman need?" Less than I have, that's for sure.
In Tolstoy's cautionary tale, the main character is offered 1,000 rubles for as much land as he can walk around in a day. He sets off at dawn, eager to mark off a large estate. As you might expect, greed gets the better of him before the story's done.
He finally collapses at sunset, dead from exhaustion on the spot where he began. In the end, "six feet from his head to his heels" is all the land the poor man requires.
I ought to have learned that lesson by now, especially in the kitchen. When we were stationed in Panama in the early 1990s, I had the point brought home to me in a very practical way.
We arrived at Fort Clayton ahead of our household goods. All my kitchenware was packed on a cargo ship. I had to make do with what I could scrape together.
The military support system plans for such contingencies. In a big room, at the back of some out-of-the-way building on every Army post, is something called a Lending Closet.
It's filled with pots and pans, odd pieces of furniture, high chairs, roll-away beds, dish drainers, silverware, and mismatched cups and plates, all available for temporary check-out.
I went to Fort Clayton's Lending Closet and selected four plates, four bowls, four water glasses, a paring knife, a butcher knife, a few serving spoons, table service for four, a 10-inch skillet, and a medium-sized sauce pan. That's it.
For nearly a month, I prepared every meal we ate using nothing but those few items. And you know what? I got pretty efficient at it.
I figured out that serving dishes are way overrated. Food stays warmer when it's dished directly from the stove. And the best part? I never stood at the sink, cleaning up for 30 minutes after dinner. I didn't own enough dishes for that. I was free.
But did I appreciate my domestic liberty? Nope. I longed for more dishes.
When they finally arrived, I was overjoyed. I spent one whole day unpacking the kitchen. Then I realized something.
If I had five dishes in the cupboard, I dirtied five when I cooked. If I had 25 dishes, I dirtied 25. It was spooky.
I was like the character from Tolstoy, compelled to cover more and more ground. What seemed like progress was only a delusion. I was burying myself in extra work.
So I wised up and started giving away dishes. For awhile, all the young bachelors we knew received our extra wedding-gift crockpots. I handed out my casseroles one at a time, to newlyweds who needed more two-quart containers. It was exhilarating.
But old habits die hard. Years have passed and now I find that I've reverted to my previous ways. The dirty dishes in my sink tell the tale.
How much cookware does a woman need? In my case, not as much as she thinks.
Certainly not as much as I have in my cupboards. I'm afraid what I've collected is mostly dead weight, just adequate for me to be buried under.