I am a wire whisk. My purpose in life is to help people whisk or whip certain foods together. I can help eggs get ready to be omelets, or mix ingredients together for pastry fillings. Basically, I am a kitchen tool for people who like to cook.
My beginning was like all other whisks; I was lying in a display at a fancy shop, waiting for the glorious day when I would belong to someone. I was in a store called SONOMA-WILLIAMS in San Francisco, which was the first store that really specialized in quality cooking items. The location of Sonoma-Williams was Union Square, so I got a lot of attention from curious tourists and locals who worked nearby and frequented the store on their lunch hour.
One of the office girls who would come in often at lunchtime was a blonde with long hair and glasses; she looked longingly at all of us in the displays, but never seemed to buy anything. I think she might have been sort of poor, but I know little about such matters.
Then one day a tall young woman with deep auburn hair and a fabulous face came to my display and grabbed me out of the jar. She brought me to the register where the clerk wrapped me in tissue paper and put me in a SW paper bag. I had been purchased! I was so excited, and wondered what was next. Would I be working at last in this lovely lady’s kitchen?
A few days passed, and I languished in the tissue, uncertain of my fate. Then, I was hurriedly stuffed into a large fabric purse, and taken away on a streetcar ride. I had no idea that this was the beginning of my exciting future that would take me on so many journeys.
We rode along for some time, until a girl came and sat next to us. The woman seemed excited and talked and laughed with this person, and shifted the purse around her knees.Then, with a burst of energy, she scooped me out of the purse, said something cheery about a birthday, and handed me to the girl next to us.The girl unwrapped me, and to my deep surprise, I recognized the blonde girl with glasses who often came to SW to visit! She was my new owner, and she seemed delighted to see me.
I have lived with my owner now for 43 years. She has always taken good care of me, and I have helped her create hundreds of meals.We started out together in a small apartment in San Francisco. She really didn’t know a lot about what I could do, but she used me to mix eggs and these really awful sauces made with soups. There wasn’t much variety in her cooking, but, again, it might have something to do with money.
As we moved around the country, from those humble beginnings in San Francisco to Boston, Maine, Florida, back to Maine, Alaska, Maine again, back to Florida, and finally to Maine one more time, I have seen and done a lot.My owner matured and read her cookbooks like novels, and I helped her create interesting vegetarian sauces when she wanted to impress her boyfriends. I worked hard on the crepes when she was really in love with someone. I struggled to perfect the whipped cream for her magnificent pies, which always won over the guests. I have even been held briefly by her sweet little daughter when she wanted to help Mommy with the frosting.
My owner found her true love at last. We got unpacked 8 years ago, and haven’t seen a moving box since. Now we are settled into the best kitchen of all:We have gleaming countertops and state of the art dishwashers to keep me clean.I think my owner has succeeded in some ways; she finally has the kitchen she dreamed of all those years ago on her lunch hours in Union Square. Along the way someone lost my plastic end cap; she is not sure who did it, but I know that both of us forgive them. I have become her treasured tool; I have stood by her through two divorces, countless heartaches, and all her triumphs. I may show some wear, but I am always ready to give my best for her.
I have gotten to know my owner pretty well. You can tell a lot about a person when they handle you while they cook. She really likes me; I don’t know if it is because I came to her when she was so young and idealistic, or just because she is such a sentimental person. When she first brought me home, her dreams were so vivid; all the plans she had were spread out before us like a magical path to The Future.
I can tell every once in a while when she looks at me or holds me, that she thinks of that day so long ago. That moment on the streetcar when I was released into her hands. It might be that she thinks about the boy she loved then, and how she hurried home with me to show him what her friend had given her. Love lost when you are so young apparently never really leaves your heart. But, I know little about such matters.