I am not one of those people who is fond of naming the inanimate objects that make my daily duties easier. As cutesy as it sounds to be driving down the road praising "Betsy" for not breaking down, or to applaud "Hernando" (the oven) for doing such a fabulous job on the souffle, it is just not my cup of tea.
That does not mean, however, that I love my appliances (or vehicles) any less than the next housewife. Quite the contrary.
There is one appliance that has sat atop my kitchen counter for a long while now. It has shared this space with the three sets of kid buns who have insisted upon "helping" me make anything from meatloaf to cookie dough. It has the power to mix up a mean whipped cream and a glossy meringue in a few seconds much better than I could on my own. It has patiently awaited being properly cleaned when life got a little too busy (have you ever looked at the underside of a stand mixer . . . go on, look - I dare you). It is the reason I am the official family cake baker (trust me, I am no Nigella - it's all the work of my lovely, my beautiful KitchenAid mixer).
So when my husband asked me if he could borrow this wonderful appliance for the Fire Department's Annual Pancake Breakfast and I wanted to cry at the thought, is it any surprise?
I love her (there I go, assigning gender to an appliance, at least it isn't a name!).
The thought of those firemen dumping eggs, buttermilk and flour by the pound into her gleaming bowl makes me cringe.
I won't be able to be there to supervise, I'll be at a baseball game cheering our youngest son on and crossing my fingers that he hits the ball.
I may feel better about his request if I were the one doing the mixing, not those greasy, sweaty (although hot) firemen.
I may feel better if those firemen provided me with a little peace of mind (in writing) like a promise to replace my beloved mixer if they, in any way, shape of form, damage her.
Call me uncharitable, call me crazy, but the thought of letting my mixer go tomorrow has me a little grumpy. Humph!