O is for Oven gloves. And for off piste, as this is where I am going with this post.
As with last year’s O is for Odd Socks post there is no theme, nor rhyme, nor reason. Can you detect a note of desperation? Perhaps I was going through the same patch of mid-alphabetical crazy this time last year. Funnily enough the Odd Socks post is one of my favourites. Short and sweet. Nonsense.
Anywhackers, here are my oven gloves. Old and new. Behold them in their glory.
What can I say of the old ones? I think that my mum or my sister in law gave them to me. It was that long ago that I can’t remember. Perhaps one of them, if they are reading, will set me straight on this. They have been with me through thick and thin for years and years. The oven gloves that is (as have the mum and sister in law to be fair). They have well and truly earned their stripes. In fact you could say that they have been with me as I have learned to cook since moving to Spain. Needs must when the devil drives and all that.
These grubby old oven gloves are Mr B’s absolute shame. He thinks that they are rotten and disgusting and hates the sight of them (although he rarely complains about the food they are pivotal in producing). I get it. The Cath Kidston print is barely discernible under all the grease and grime of hard labour carried out at the stove and oven. Although I suspect that Mr B couldn’t give a monkey’s dump about the pattern, just the general filth.
For me they are like and old friend. The stains and burns are like shared memories and laughter lines. They are trusted and comfortable.
And what of my gorgeous new oven gloves? Well they are gorgeous and new from the National Trust. Mum sent them to me along with a little care package for Bibsey’s birthday. They were a lovely surprise. Thanks Mum. I absolutely love them.
They are still a little bit stiff and unwieldy, so not yet quite trusted. But I am sure that with a bit of roughing up they will come to be my oven glove of choice. The ones that I reach for when pulling my cakes out of the oven. The old ones will go into happy retirement, but never in the bin. And just to be clear though, there won’t be any paella. Nunca jamás.
What weird little objects of desire do you love with all your heart and why?
I am blogging through the alphabet throughout the month of April. Thank you all for reading and commenting.
