After a while I just start throwing stuff into boxes. A week ago, maybe even yesterday, it mattered that things be packed carefully. Now I no longer care. The movers can break all this kitchen crap and I won’t blink. They’re coming tomorrow and I am not ready, nor, most probably, will I be by the end of the day. So screw the Le Creuset pots that William-Sonoma sells for $370, and the Japanese sushi knife I never learned to use, and the Pasta Tub. Yes, I have—I had—something called a Pasta Tub, an oval plastic piece of junk that promised peerless linguini, except the manufacturer lied. It either burned the spaghetti or left it as stiff as chopsticks.
I have discarded cans of food almost a decade old, and four frying pans and two dozen coffee mugs and the end is not in sight. What to do with the bone china my mother left me? There are dedicated asparagus plates with little recesses for sauce, and steak knives from Besançon, and linen from Nimes and twenty-five tiny fondue forks. I loathe fondue.
I am trying to locate the space where my anger dwells. I am pissed at myself for having so many useless possessions, and pissed at others for not helping with this onerous moving task. I am no longer able to make rational choices on what to keep and what to trash. I need advice; I really, really do. Just as my editor trims my work to make it better, now I need a you-don’t-need-this-special-lima-beans-colander editor.
This doesn’t make sense, but no matter. I want to throw things, so I do. A contraption to grill fish goes into the garbage can alongside commemorative plates commemorating events not worthy of commemoration. Little tiny bowls used for, what? Damned if I know. Oooh, a special mustard dispenser from Dijon! Really, I should keep—no. Into the trash it goes.
I have been up since four. Now I am going back to the bed that I will have to take apart later today. Thanks for listening.