The other night, while whipping up a few of my Big Mom’s sweet potato pies, I was suddenly charmed by the number of whisks I’ve accumulated since returning to California. There was a time in my life where I only had one whisk… amusingly (in hindsight at least), I also kept my facial hair to a minimum, and hence: I was whisk-poor.
Since then, I’ve grown a pretty impressive ‘stache, and acquired 5+ whisks; two are squirreled away for a rainy day. So, now I’m rich with whisks and whiskers. I’m whisk-rich.
I look forward to becoming whisk-wealthy but that just doesn’t have the same zing. But I find it an endearing thought to think about a snapshot of me me whisking whiskey while ‘wearing’ whiskers (now, do I mean just me, or friends with whisks, whisking egg whites for a meringue?). An epitome of frivolity and senseless humor.
Now, in sinks the slight trepidation at the idea of following a Marie Kondo style clean-up of thing’s that don’t bring me joy. I can find joy in the most mundane things…