I have a friend who has only recently moved here (seemingly on a whim) and is living in one temporary set-up after another while he looks for a job. Meanwhile, most of his belongings are in storage on the other side of the country. He has expressed to me particular dismay at the pitifully equipped kitchens that have been made available to him during his California experiment. He misses his knives and pots and steamers. He misses cooking.
My kitchen is quite well-stocked. I have excellent stainless steel cookware, a variety of ceramic baking dishes, a pastry brush, a meat-tenderizing mallet. I even have a cherry pitter. Last night for dinner I had a peanut butter and honey sandwich. And some Kalua. What? It was raining. It seemed appropriate. Plus, I didn't even know I had Kalua.
Are you having a brilliant idea right now? Because I had one last night.
On Saturday, I am doing my friend the great and generous favor of allowing him to cook dinner in my kitchen. After which I'm pretty sure the rules of etiquette dictate that I join him in eating it.
Lest you think that I am nothing but a conniver, I will have you know that, this very morning in honor of this meal, I finally replaced my horrible pepper grinder (which required cranking gusto more appropriate to starting a Model T, only to result in pepper bits only slightly smaller than the original peppercorn) with an excellent pepper grinder. A pepper grinder worthy of someone who misses grinding pepper.