They’re never sharp, the coffee mugs are too small – and as for those those glass chopping boards… Being a fully paid-up member of the acutely tasteful, exquisitely nuanced, belly-obsessed bourgeoisie is a dreadful struggle, and never more so than when summer holidays approach. For with the anticipation – of long lunches on bougainvillea-scented terraces with sea views, of chilled glasses of rosé as dusk falls – comes The Fear. It is the stomach-churning fear of the, oh God, ill-equipped kitchen. This year we have rented a house in Greece, and while I have flicked endlessly through the online photographs, imagining myself inhabiting the scene, it is the pictures of the kitchen I have lingered over, in search of signs. Except there never are any, because images like this are an exercise in advanced OCD. Any clutter, any objects which might leave clues, have been tidied away. I’m delighted there’s a wine fridge, obviously. But what I really need to know is this: what are the kitchen knives like? Continue reading...
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