The non-meat chopping board I have used for more than a decade is awful. It is a mini butcher’s block, at least 10cm thick, half a metre long and so heavy I cannot pick it up with one hand. It will not fit in the sink to be washed efficiently. And, of course, it’s made of wood, which is never ideal. There’s probably now more culture on its surface than on a whole night of BBC Four. It is dreadful in so many ways. I also can’t imagine cooking without it.
Like everyone else, I’ve spent far too much time in the kitchen recently doing a culinary version of rinse and repeat. During this marathon cookathon, I’ve come to realise that there are objects in there which aren’t just useful. They are vital to my sense of self as a cook. I depend upon them. That stupid, cumbersome, ill-thought out, much-loved chopping board is only the start of it. For example, I have three sets of tongs in my utensil drawer. I say “drawer”; I really mean “yawning maw of wretched chaos that is a visualisation of my confused inner self”. There’s a long black plastic number with tips that are incapable of gripping. There’s a springy metal set that are so short you’ll also chargrill your hand on a flame if you try to use them over the cooker.
And then there’s the pair I actually use: not too long so that they’re cumbersome, but long enough to provide distance from the pan; a rounded plastic handle on each side; a manageable spring loading. Without these in my grip I am not in control. As one of the reasons I cook, apart from greed, is to project control on to a messed-up world by bending ingredients to my will, this is important.
I have three frying pans. Two of them are really only there for use on violent intruders in the dead of night or, at a push, for emergency bacon sandwich action. The one I want to use, the one I reach for first, is a 35-year-old piece of dirty orange Le Creuset, with a wooden handle that’s starting to come loose. It’s a health and safety disaster. It’s also the ideal size, and the cast iron surface is perfectly seasoned. Oh, the stories that frying pan could tell. We’ve been through so much together, that pan and me. I’ve watched it smoke furiously after 10 minutes on a roaring burner in preparation for a steak and then, after that job is done, seen flames leap from the surface, courtesy of half a glass of brandy chucked in to deglaze. At each point I’ve always known how it would behave. I trust it.
I have a square of thin, slightly bendy steel with a rubber handle, given to me by the chef Nick Nairn, which he told me is called a “gosunder”, because it “goes under” chopped veg to get them to the pan. Without the gosunder, I am at a personal disadvantage. I favour my ancient, dowdy metal whisk over my newer, vibrant silicone one, even though the latter is clearly more acutely engineered. And don’t get me started on the extreme prejudice with which I select a wooden spoon. There must be 20 in that drawer. Only holding the one with the myriad stove burn notches on the handle makes me feel secure.
All of this is ludicrous. It is the magical thinking of a toddler. If I’m any good at this whole cooking lark it shouldn’t matter which board, pan or whisk I use. But right now, it really does. There are two explanations for this: first, cooking is not just functional. It’s emotional. And second, I am currently in the process of losing the plot.
