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Sometimes I stand in the middle of my kitchen struck with wonder at how beautiful my life is and how grateful I am for it. Other times, not so much. Today, I want to talk of the role of inanimate objects in creating at least a portion of my happiness.
Lee Valley is my corporate hero. You didn't know I had one, did you? Going through a new Lee Valley catalog I dog-ear page after page of "wants," which I later, refusing temptation, un-dog-ear because wants are not needs. In the last six months, however, I made two Lee Valley purchases that have changed my life.
When we go out at night, we leave the porch light on so we can find our way up the steps without stumbling. But the light fails to reach the front door lock. I have spent 36 years fumbling for the keyhole. Whole minutes! Minutes gone from my life! Blood-pressure-raising minutes!
Now I search no more for that keyhole! From Lee Valley I bought a tiny little flashlight, the size of a hearing-aid battery, that adheres to my key. I aim the key in the general direction, press the tiny button with my thumb, and voila! Let there be light. The door is unlocked in the wink of an eye. Two shakes of a lamb's tail. The work of a moment. I am happy!
The second inanimate object is almost as small and was just as inexpensive. With the failing memory of age I have become ever more dependent on timers to keep me from burning everything I cook. I've been known to put a tray of cookies in the oven, get myself a drink of water, and then, having focused on the water for fifteen seconds, leave the kitchen with nary a thought for the cookies in the oven. It is only 25 minutes later that the smell of burned cookies swirls its way up the stairs to my computer. And then I remember . . .
So I always set a timer the minute I put something on a burner to cook. And if I leave the room, I take the timer with me. And when I leave THAT room, I probably forget to take the timer. So when it dings its tiny ding 20 minutes later I am nowhere to be found, certainly not within hearing distance of the little ping. And then later the smell of burning swirls its way up the stairwell to the computer—oh, we've been here before.
Having a timer implanted into my wrist seemed excessive. Luckily I found in the Lee Valley catalog just what I needed. I now have a digital timer that is so simple even I can operate it. My timer can be set for seconds only or for up to ninety minutes. When the pre-set time is reached, the high-pitched bee-bee-bee-beep is so annoying I react to it immediately, just to stop the noise.
But here's why I really love my timer. It has a big fat clip! I clip it onto me (well, my clothing) and it stays with me wherever I go. When it beeps I have usually forgotten that I am wearing it (and of course forgotten that I had anything in the oven). But I am startled into remembrance and action and I haven't burned anything since I bought it.
So if you come to visit me and see something clipped to my sweater like a limpet, rest assured that it is not a growth or an insect but the only thing standing between me and culinary chaos.
Lee Valley, I love you.
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