Sifting flour sounds archaic and isn't a step I've taken since I was a teenager. My maturity in the ensuing years has never deemed the task sensible; it's delaying, messy, and requires the act of measuring--something I'm averse to. I won't have any of it, and while I know alot of women who measure, I don't know of any who sift. Do they even make sifters anymore?!
It's curious to me then, (but completely predictable) that I recently became caught up in a search for vintage flour sifters. Like the antique rolling pins, cream whippers, wire whisks and nut choppers I already don't use, I feel that flour sifters (and other kitchen collectibles) will further put me in the mood for cooking and thus make my time spent in the kitchen a total joy. There you have it. There it is--my explanation why I mightily indulge in vintage kitchenware.
The craziest thing about this (yes, there's a crazier part) is that everytime I find something new (that's old) I want to make it a focal point of the room. Making it a focal point of the room means something has to make way for the new (old) thing, and then where do I put THAT (old) old thing? A couple of months ago I loved THAT thing so much it had to be the focal point, so now what?
Thus, the room gets turned upside down, every time. So does my porch pantry, which is the entry to our old farmhouse, a place I consider an extension of the kitchen.
Some would say I have too much time on my hands, but this is what I do. This is who I am. I have plenty to do in my days, but if I don't nurture the homefront then I don't nurture myself.
Speaking of nurturing the homefront, in the midst of all the disarray, aromas from the oven and stovetop blindsided me toward a hankering for homemade tortillas. Drifts of bubbling beans and garlicky, chili-crusted pork roast insistently reminded me that I was working up an appetite, and wouldn't from-scratch tortillas and a pan of traditional rice make the whole meal a feast?
Blame it on visions of flour sifters dancing in my head. Must have been the correlation between flour and tortillas, but I just added another glitch into getting my kitchen back in order.
Oh well. Some people thrive on the pressure of the corporate boardroom. The kitchen IS my boardroom. It's where I rule, at least in my own home. So on this day I was making a mess, and I was making tortillas.
By suppertime the room was pulled together save for the finishing touch--the actual flour sifter. Actually flour sifterS--I purchased two after a weekend shopping online from the comfort of my home. It's the start of a modest collection inspired by a woman whose shop I once visited in a small town near my home.
A quiet, unassuming sort, she nonetheless was prideful and possessive of her collection of old flour sifters. The stunning gems sat up high on a built-just-for-them shelf, and spilled into a locked glass cabinet underneath--appropriate for the jewels they were. Try as I might, she would not sell one.
I also by suppertime had fresh tortillas snuggled into a warmer, and a full meal inspired by another unassuming woman--my mother. She always made food like this. In her later years she, as many Californians do, came to rely on the good tortillerias that are prevalent everywhere. I watched her make tortillas often enough that I was able to imitate her when I came to live in places where only "lesser" tortillas were available. (In the world of tortillas less quality is never plenty good.)
It seems the passions we have can most usually be attributed to impressions once made, invited unknowingly to deeply sink in. We have little awareness of what is occurring and little say. It just happens. We might know we should strive to cure cancer, but we can only hope that someone else will. Not everyone wins a "doing what I love" career, but in our private lives it should be a given that we pursue in good measure that which (in positive fashion) moves us. And with no apologies to those who differ.
We respond to the inspirational models in our lives. Conversely and not-so-strangely, we at times extract the most inspiration from negative impressions made. We see the intolerable and determine: "That will not be a part of my life."
Sometimes our most affecting impressions result from long-term witnessing in our sustained relationships. Others result from momentary, fleeting exchanges. The woman whose flour sifters I coveted did not appear to be "wealthy," but she owned a wealth of resistance to caving in over a few dollars some might have said she appeared to need. It turned out that this building was also her home; one with inadequate private quarters and so while her shop was open to the public, not everything in it was for sale. Her treasures were her treasures, come what may.
I know the lesson well that an inanimate object (like a flour sifter) is never precious like a family member is.
But enlightenment did occur to me when I faced the reality that I had previously owned and (and then let go of) one of the flour sifters I recently purchased. Years prior, when opening my own little shop, I tentatively put this object out on the floor. I priced it high, hoping no one would buy it. I wrestled with wanting to keep it and wanting good stuff in my store. Darned if someone didn't quickly think it looked good enough to buy at my asking price, and away it went. For a few extra dollars than what I paid for it, I parted with it.
In paying a few dollars more than THAT now to replace it, it's hard to admit I've paid the price of ridiculous again. But could I really see the point of this new lesson any other way? Collectible THINGS will never be the treasures that people are, but a page from my flour sifter mentor's book should definitely be taken.
Lesson learned. And I can hear my husband swallowing THAT.
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