open letter to my spatulas

Dearest spatulas,

Wow, you’re both looking especially orange and sturdy today.  While that’s not something I ever want to hear, I know that makes you guys feel good.  And yes, I’m trying to be extremely nice because I feel guilty.  I don’t think anyone gives you and your pals enough attention, or the credit you deserve. While mixers, immersion blenders, knives, cutting boards, and even whisks are the talk of the town, spatulas are in the background cleaning out mixing bowls immaculately.  Well, good spatulas, that is.  The first time I really appreciated you was baking in my parents’ kitchen, and lacking an efficient spatula.  I stood there for a moment and thought of you both.  You make a good team – I enjoy having both a classic and offset spatula within reach.

On behalf of cooks and bakers everywhere, thank you.  Although it’s not frequently verbalized, your dedication to your job and your efficiency in all you do, has not gone unnoticed.  (I used that something along those lines for our garbageman when I gave him a little package of cookies.  He’s the best and grabs our cans when we forget to move them to the street!  Amazing, right?)  Sorry, I got a little sidetracked there, spatulas.  This is about you.  Thank you so much.  I love you.  I appreciate you.

Keep it real,


Other Letters:

Measuring cups and spoons

Fine mesh sieve

Stand mixer




an open letter to measuring cups and spoons

Dear Measuring cups and spoons,

I like you so much.  I actually think I love you.  There’s no need to slowly build up to that in this letter, I want to start this off with you knowing that.  Now, I may have started off a letter to a boyfriend in high school with these exact lines, but this time is different.  I mean it.  Nothing in the world can change how I feel. 

We’re in this together.  I’m not going to run out on you and pull some sort of Ina Garten on you and try to eyeball three tablespoons of really good olive oil, or whatever.  I need you like you need me.  Where I lack precision, you step in.  It’s like we finish each others sentences, or something.

I want more of you.  Really, I want more measuring devices – spoons carved from fallen Red Woods, and Russian dolls and milk bottles that cleverly come apart to measure dry ingredients.  It’s not because I don’t love you, or that you’re completely boring.  You’re classic brushed metal, and I like that about you.  It’s just that I need some variety, for it is the spice of life after all.  And you deserve a break, too. 

I could go on and on – devote precious minutes spelling out how having you in my life makes me complete.  But, I’m going to keep this short and sweet.  (And I’m going to catch up on Downton Abbey.)  You don’t have to say a word, even if that were possible.  I know how much you love me. 

Forever yours,


Check out other letters I’ve written to stuff in my kitchen here and here.


open letter to my fine mesh sieve

Dear Fine Mesh Sieve,

You never really had a place in my kitchen before I started baking on the regular.  Welcome.  I hope the other utensils are treating you well, because I know what it’s like being the new kid at school.  I chose to wow my new peers with an a capella version of “It’s a Small World” at the school talent show.  (I was seven, give me a break!)  You sort of did the same thing when you busted through the doors, saving me from lumpy pudding, or quiche custard, or other stuff that I can’t think of that should not be lumpy.  While it took me three times to awkwardly start the song, I won over the crowd, even getting a free pass to sit with the cool fifth graders in the back of the bus on the way home from school that day.  You’ve earned your place next to the fancy sifter, and the Pyrex measuring cups, in the cupboard. 

While you’re good at what you do, I think there are moments when you’re too good for your job – too fine a sieve, if there is such a thing in the world.  You’re like the gates of Mordor some days- none shall pass!  It all works out in the end though, and like that little Hobbit purging that ring into the fiery lava below, I wield a wooden spoon and work whatever I’m making through your tiny sieve gates, getting the job done.

I’m sorry that I’m not very good at capturing you actually doing your job in photos.  Can you blame me?  I only have two hands!  I’ll work on it, I promise. 

I don’t think it’s too soon to say, I love you, you fine mesh sieve.