She wasn’t always mine. Previously, my world consisted of cooking utensils that could not stir ingredients of their own accord, and plastic mixing bowls that had to be secured to the counter manually, and perpetually. It was a simpler time, certainly—but a laborious one.
I thought I couldn’t have a KitchenAid mixer until I found love. That’s when you get a mixer, right? It’s your kitchen’s version of a wedding band — I’d accepted this. So year after year, I toiled away in silence, stirring things with spoons and whisks, like a peasant.
The truth is, I was tired. Tired of the key ingredient in most of my cooking and baking recipes being listed as “upper body strength, 1 cup.” It didn’t seem fair. But the KitchenAid mixer always seemed so out of reach, so fancy, so expensive, even at Black Friday pricing. I resigned myself to suffer and stir in silence.
But then something wonderful happened. In an instant, my kitchen and I were validated as we thoroughly deserve to be. I moved this summer. From a crumbling Brooklyn roach container (you know the dwelling) to a brand-new building with [chokes back tears] an elevator. I leveled-up my living space, and the culinary gods saw that my baked goods followed suit.
Two dear friends, a couple who continually take me in on national holidays like some kind of very friendly and wine-bearing stray, gifted me with the most glorious housewarming gift ever to take up an electrical outlet: A KitchenAid mixer. Reader, I screamed. I wept. I called my mother. In an instant I felt whole, worthy, and grown up. This is an appliance for adults. I’ve made it. The attachments tell me so.
It should bring you great joy to know the first thing to hit the bottom of her bowl was butter. Oh, the chocolate chip cookies we made that day. My villainous oven ruined them but not all appliances can perform at the level now set by my beautiful darling.
Sometimes I just gaze at her in admiration, other times I use her to whip up even the most trivial of dressings for my salad. I find reasons to go to her, to appreciate her gifts. You should taste the pretzel dough she spins up, you really should. Her first meringue nearly erupted out of the bowl, she was so excited.
Perhaps there’s a silliness in feeling so complete following the arrival of a piece of machinery, but not every machine is a KitchenAid mixer. Not every machine alters your outlook on life and your prep time by radical margins. No, this feeling of wholeness is earned, it is true. Because where once I watched couples on the sidewalk, saddened by what I knew was waiting for them on the counter at home, now I hold my head high among them. Now I inquire as I walk past them, a fully fledged member of their club, “what’s in the mix for tonight, friends?” What indeed.