A Tale of 6 Whisks (A Primer on Excess)

Here’s this week’s reflection. I hope it resonates with you and ask that, if you enjoyed, please comment and share on your social media. Heartfelt thanks for all your support!

Keeping the light on for you,

Carol

“Six?!” a pragmatic friend incredulously repeated, hearing how many whisks she had to choose from in my kitchen drawer. A bit defensive, I hastily retorted “Is there a problem with that?  I use ‘em ALL!”

“But why on Earth do you need SIX? I have ONE and it works out just fine,” she pressed. 

“Well,” I explained, “the large and small balloon whisks are for general use and the flat whisk is for gravy. And I have two sets: one in stainless and the other silicone-coated.” Shaking her head and chuckling, she offered “You can only physically use one at a time, you know.” 

After that pre-pandemic meal, her comments baked in my mental oven. Why exactly DID I feel the need to have six whisks? Querying other foodie friends revealed that, like my pragmatic friend, they, too, only had one, maybe two whisks at most. 

Initially, I felt this was gastronomic blasphemy. Yet, beneath the roiling boil of my culinary clutter, I discovered a slow, decades-long simmer on a much larger retail hotplate. 

A once childless caterer wannabe, meccas such as Williams Sonoma, Sur La Table, and countless outlets offering pots, pans, and free samples were always on my radar. Convinced that success in the food industry required the perfect kit, I became softened butter in the warm hands of clever marketing, and amassed a respectable collection of high-end gadgetry and seasonal tableware. 

My current, now parental, reality was that I rarely cooked extravagantly at home and always reached for the same basic utensils, including a single whisk. Hosting large gatherings brought me enormous stress along with a few personality changes my family not-so-lovingly pointed out. A future in catering would obviously not be in the cards. 

As I began noticing stashes of overabundance all around the house, the percolating conversation in my head shifted from the humble whisk toward gross consumerism and my perplexing “need” for duplicates. 

Thanks to my friend’s goading, five of the six whisks went down the road, whipping up a wave of enlightenment and momentum.

One hundred twenty cookbooks (yes, 1-2-0) shamefully offered a glaring area for improvement. Amassed as gifts, vacation souvenirs, and discount finds, the collection of genres had grown exponentially. 

The possibility of eating from a different region of the planet each week for well over two years collided with my family’s mandate for more basic fare, not to mention less travel-induced cleanup. A quest to expand their palates turned into a stew of indecision with too many choices. Keeping only those repeatedly used cookbooks, or ones with handwritten sentiments, delusions of culinary grandeur were escorted to the thrift shop.

My closet was another clone cave. A favorite shirt or shoe style had each been purchased in different colors. A favorite travel purse in three hues. A certain jacket style in two shades. Beginning to feel the stare-down by evil twins and triplets on hangers every time I entered this space, the pursuit of simplicity meant separating these fashion siblings and finally dressing for my current reality. And, no surprise, we all got over it.

A sewing room had also become a harbinger of harassment with unfinished projects, too many random fabrics purchased to “build my stash,” and at least one hundred embroidery floss colors. All the domestic arts squabbled with each other, vying for my limited free time and attention span. 

The desire to be prolific created overload from decision fatigue. The sheer volume, and associated guilt, of misguided purchases paradoxically stifled any creative whims. The Diva Den was now the Diva Dumpster in serious need of a purge. 

Fighting my predilection for fabric stores, I began restricting my trips to an “as needed only” basis. Textiles that were no longer favorites were donated. Bouquets of knitting needles found new homes, along with several stitching kits and assorted notions.    

Despite offering a multitude of choice, all these household items suffocated me. My perfectionist desire for abundance and completion set me up to fail, robbing me of exploring my truths within, and in front of me. 

The need to feel prepared for every potential scenario was unrealistic, exhausting, and meant I was not living in the moment, but in an anxious, suspended animation waiting to react. The headspace required to manage all the stuff began screaming at its cranial seams. 

Realizing I was not placed on this Earth to be humanity’s personal shopper came a tad late, but it still, thankfully, penetrated my consciousness. 

Now, occasional procurement missions are far more limited and intentional. Knowing my impulse triggers and lower threshold for analysis paralysis, living (and purchasing) for the present is the biggest takeaway for this former shop-a-holic. 

Thanks to a little whisk-y business, my possessions and life have been whittled and blended for the better.