I love beautiful cookware.  I flip through the Williams Sonoma catalog the way others might flip through a jewelry store catalog. The exquisite collection, presented over a series of glossy pages, is arranged to entice the viewer. How flawless!  How elegant!   I don’t know where this obsession came from, but for as long as I have been cooking, I have desired to collect high-end cookware.

My first piece was a 3.5-quart dutch oven in cherry red.  It was obscenely expensive, so I put money aside for months to pay for it.  I walked into Sur La Table and walked out beaming, hugging my culinary gem, dying to get home and create a gourmet masterpiece.  I took pictures of my purchase to share with friends and family, like one might when bringing home a new puppy.

“This is Charlie, isn’t he sweet?”  Except it was a pot.

That first night with my Dutch oven, I think I made goulash, which is sort of like wearing Vivian Westwood to a church potluck.  But nestling hamburger and macaroni into that lovely pot kicked off something in me that I can’t deny.  I am a cookware junkie.

I purchase about one piece a year and have replaced most of my old cookware with the high-end beauties.  They last forever, so there’s never a need to replace them.  With each new purchase I tell myself and others that I need it because I don’t have that particular size, or shape, or style and more importantly, they are HEIRLOOM PIECES.  This always works for me, the heirloom angle.  I’m really buying them for those I’ll leave behind.  Seems less selfish.

When my husband, Ron, makes fun of me for being over the top with my “pots and pans,” I remind him of the shelves and shelves of tools in our garage that he must forage through just to locate a screwdriver.  And how, in home stores, he always stops to fondle the latest gizmos in the tool aisle.  Turning a cordless drill over in his hand, he’ll say, “I don’t have one like this.  I could use this,” his eyes covetous and glittering.  For him it’s a drill, for me, it’s an oyster gray braiser.  Same thing.

I am nearly, but not quite, as in love with cookbooks as I am gourmet cookware.  I have at last count, over 50 cookbooks.  I love reading them cover to cover, lingering over the pictures of expertly made dishes, and placing post-it notes on the pages with recipes I want to try.  I am not necessarily adventurous when it comes to global cuisine, but I have tried several challenging dishes, some of which were worth the effort and some that I will never make again.  Ron is from Tennessee, so he tends not to like much that isn’t fried or heavy with butter and fat.  More than once I’ve presented a dish, new and exciting, lovingly prepared, only to have him lift the lid on the simmering pot, turn up his nose and say, “It’s okay, I’ll find something to eat.” 

Along with cookware and cookbooks aplenty, I also have aprons.  Lots and lots of aprons in lots of styles:  Bib, Waist, Bistro, Pinafore.  Holiday aprons.  Seasonal aprons.  Aprons with statements like, “This Shit is Gonna be Delicious.”   My family knows I love aprons, so it is an easy gift idea.  Although I have not reached the point of too many aprons, it’s always smart to keep your partialities to yourself.

Several years ago, I had an appointment with an insurance agent.  Her office was jam-packed with clowns.  There were clown figurines on her desk, bookcase, and file cabinet.  A clown lamp sat on the corner of her desk next to a clown mug filled with paper clips.  A trio of Emmet Kelly prints hung on the wall.  They were everywhere; it was horrifying.  I took a seat and said shakily, “Wow.  You really like clowns.” 

She sat down behind her desk, looked me in the eye and said, “No. I hate them.  When I was a kid, I had a clown doll and I guess I liked it, so I got another one for Christmas.  It went from there. With my family, it’s clowns for every occasion,” she swept her arm around the room.  

“Worse, my coworkers are on board,” she said.  “They give me clown birthday cards and clown note pads and whatever.  I’m seriously ready to set fire to this office.”

I believed she’d do it.  I had a teacher in elementary school, Mrs. Vogt, who had owl trinkets all over her desk.  One day they were just GONE.  Not an owl in sight.  I peered into the trashcan next to her desk, expecting to see ceramic shards of owl parts, and cracked, googly eyes staring up at me.  But it was empty.  I asked her where all her owls went, and she told me they must have flown away.  She seemed cheerier, somehow.

I don’t know if I will ever have too much gourmet cookware, or cookbooks, or aprons.  How much is too much when I enjoy them so much?  The problem is space.  I am at capacity for all three.  Do I purge the lesser-used items to make room for that pine tree-shaped Dutch oven I am currently coveting, or the latest Melissa Clark cookbook?  Or do I find a new passion that costs less and uses less space?  Or maybe I just settle in and enjoy what I have without wanting more.  But really, who does that?