Stocking your kitchen gear from scratch: A divorcée’s guide to starting over
When I was 14, I asked for a hope chest for Christmas. If you’re not familiar with hope chests, they were wooden trunks that were owned by the young women of yesteryear to collect items they’d need for when they married.
I know what you’re thinking - and, yes, they are sort of patriarchal and outdated. But when I was 14, I was hyper-obsessed with my future life. I dreamed of picking out my housewares long before I needed them, and I would put them in this sacred, future trunk until I was an independent adult. My parents – bless them – indulged my craving for premature domesticity. I had a long history of being their weird kid, and they were always supportive of my zany dreams.
The holidays came that year, and my parents indeed got me that coveted wooden trunk for Christmas. I was then that strange 14-year-old who used holidays to collect items for her future life. My grandparents were old fashioned and obliged every now and then - a nice starter silverware set for my birthday or a pretty set of tea towels one Christmas. My mom bought me a set of glassware at some point. But for the most part, I was the one filling the hope chest. With my teenage spending money, I’d wander the aisles of budget big-box retailers and slowly collect supplies for my badass future life. Bright green spatula? Check. Turquoise ice cube tray for $1? Absolutely yes. The problem with my approach was twofold: I was buying very inexpensive products with no lasting power, and, because I’d never lived on my own, I didn’t really know what I would need.
You’re welcome for digging up this horrendous photo of me in my first kitchen at 19. Hosting a party that involved some sort of apple-pie-themed drink complete with whipped cream chasers. Shame. So much shame.
I was 19 when I moved into my first solo apartment. I quickly discovered that half the items in my hope chest were ceremonial. Those embroidered tea towels my grandparents gave me? Those seem like “special occasion” territory. The other half of these items were obnoxiously-bright, low-budget plastic. Within a year, everything I’d bought had broken down and had to be replaced. My hope chest hopes were dashed.
Flash forward to my twenties: Twenties Dani was settling into her identity. I now knew what I needed in my kitchen routine. I was registering for wedding gifts and buying a house, and being exceptionally flippant about finances. This was the “I will have everything I want, and it will be aesthetically pleasing” phase of my life. I had a 12-setting collection of pristine white dish ware, despite the fact that my home never could have fit more than 6 people. I had a fondue set and a food dehydrator, just in case. It was a glorious kitchen that masked quietly-mounting credit card bills and a secretly unhappy married life. Lessons were learned. Perhaps wedding registries are simply virtual hope chests.
Thank goodness by the time I hit my twenties I had better taste in kitchen decor. Unfortunately, I also had a taste for credit card debt and poor life choices.
Let's time-dash ahead again, because this is that kind of story. Exactly two years ago this week, I arrived in California for a new job and a new life. I was a 30-something who was about to be a debt-ridden divorcée. Moving from Florida meant that I left behind all those kitchen gadgets, all 12 beautiful sets of dishware, and even my hope chest. But starting over can be a beautiful thing. Tabula rasa, as Alex says. And that’s what brings us to today.
So gather around the campfire, kiddos, and let this elder millennial tell you all she’s learned in stocking a kitchen as a battle-hardened and salty spinster.
Lesson #1: You get what you pay for
Don’t get me wrong. I am a thrifty little chipmunk, and I am in no way advocating for spending gobs of money on top-of-the-line everything in your kitchen. But I did learn the hard way that spending $1 or less on plastic items that are used frequently will leave you with sad, melted spatulas and spoons. Today I purchase items based on solid online reviews, eco-friendly production methods, or tried-and-true materials. Do I still use a set of $2 plastic kitchen tools from IKEA daily? I do! But I’m realistic that they have an expiration date and they’ll need to be upgraded to a sturdier set down the road when I’m willing to invest in them.
Lesson #2: Do not buy into the hype that you need a complete set
You know those incredible collections of boxed pots and pans you see in the stores and online? They have four sizes of pots, and a skillet and a griddle and a grill pan and a lid for absolutely everything? Real talk, boo boo: you probably don’t need all of those. I cook pretty adventurous dishes on a regular basis. Alex and I own one saucepan, one large pot with a lid, one large skillet with a lid, and a medium skillet. Period. You don’t need a dozen pots and pans to cook meals. But being strategic about what you actually will use will save you money and cabinet space. For the longest time, I thought I needed to own this stuff in order to be taken seriously. But unless you're genuinely hosting bougie dinner parties on a weekly basis (we're all imagining season 4, episode 13 of The Office), your friends probably won't see that much of your cookware (and Dwight is going to bring his own place settings anyway). So just in case you need to hear someone say it: you have permission to stock your kitchen with only the items you need. Also, a friendly reminder that your stove only has so many burners, so it’s impossible to use every pot and pan in a giant set at one time. Let that sink in for a second.
Lesson #3: Leave the whisk, take the meat thermometer
I didn’t own a whisk for a year after moving to California. I knew I wanted to invest in a quality, not-$1-flimsy-wire whisk, but researching and buying a whisk wasn’t a priority. I used a fork to scramble eggs. No big deal. Conversely, buying a kitchen thermometer was more urgent. I don’t know about you, but I prepare meat way more often than I whisk. Being sure my protein is cooked to a safe temperature is a big deal. I think it comes back to that weird compulsion humans with presenting completion. We want to look like we have it all together, so we need to buy one of everything, just in case. If you’re stocking your kitchen, whether as a teen just moving into your first apartment or a 30-something post-divorce, my advice would be to prioritize the items you actually need for the food you actually prepare. You can get that whisk later — you know, when your whisking hobby really takes off. Until then, there’s no shame in improvising; it’s thrifty and eco-friendly. But also, if you don’t have a meat thermometer, get one. You’d be surprised how often you’re undercooking your chicken.
Lesson #4: Live with the chaos just long enough to find a solution
When I moved into this adorably tiny studio apartment, I resisted the urge to run out and buy every kitchen organization system under the sun. I knew I would have a few bumpy months of disorganization, and that’s okay. I put myself into a science experiment and forced myself to be patient. When something was frustrating or messy, I made a mental note of it. I pondered different ways I could solve the problems. I was brutally honest about my expectations, my needs, and my budget. For example, I know that I hate when I can’t find a particular seasoning because my spices are tossed haphazardly on a shelf. But when I moved in, I had all of 3 spices to my name. After a few months and a few more recipes that called for specific seasonings, I splurged on a cabinet spice rack with drawers. By that time, I knew where it would be most convenient to store spices while cooking, exactly how much room I had in the cabinet, and approximately how many spice jars I needed to store. If I had just bought something right away, sure, it would have worked, but I might've ended up with room for 10 extra spices, and that kind of space can drive a gal to wantonly buy spices. It's better to have a right-fit solution that’s really tailored to my needs.
Lesson #5: Storage solutions matter
I’m not as kind to the world as I’d like to be, but I’m trying. Recently I’ve made an effort to avoid zip-top bags by using washable resealable bags. It’s kind of a pain, but it’s better than tossing a sandwich bag into a landfill after one use. I’ve also invested in a small set of Pyrex containers with lids. The Pyrex work to keep anything I’d typically use a zip-top bag or plastic wrap for about 90% of the time. (Plus, they can double as bowls if I need them to. I’m not ashamed to admit I’ve eaten cereal out of them before when I didn’t want to do dishes. Judge me if you must.) Whether you’re looking for an eco-friendly route or just trying to build your kitchen gear in a way that makes sense, sticking to one brand will make your life easier. Have you ever tried to hunt around a drawer for a matching lid because you have 12 different Tupperware types? Me too. And it’s unpleasant. So my advice is to pick one that works for you and stick with it. And if you can be friendly to the earth while you’re at it, even better.
So there you have it. Five silly things I learned from building my kitchen gear 3 times over.
My biggest lesson? Don’t ever feel the need to justify what you like or choose to own. Life is too short to be worried about someone judging your kitchen set-up, right? You do you.