The unwashed espresso cup sits next to the machine for hours.
It goes through three transitions, I've noticed: white, then off-white and then finally, brown. This cup sits untouched from sunrise to sun down. And in fact, there are other kitchenware that idle like this: dishes that choke the tiny sink. A knife that is sunk deep into an uncovered block of butter. Breadcrumbs that build their homes atop the counter. A burnt piece of baguette that finds mingling in a pile of rubbish unthinkable; instead, it steadily occupies the toaster.
Clatter is characteristic of every Parisian kitchen I've walked into. The chicest homes come with fancy fire places, splendid views of La Tour Eiffel, and kitchens turned upside down. Although I find comfort in orderliness, I am constantly intrigued by this deep contrast; the kitchen is a perpetual pit.
Clatter and I aren't friends; we never will be. But I've started paying more attention to it. Maybe there exists an invisible world where a "clink" between plates and metalware signifies communication. What if within the four walls of these dark cupboards we stack them in, they talk, laugh and breath? If they are truly alive, they deserve to feel every ray of sunshine that pours through the window, don't they? They deserve to lounge in their imperfections, dont they?
"Spic and Span" is impressive, but guide your pans into the open, and they will not be depressive. Let them laugh at each other's stains, let them soak the sun, laissez-les vivre. Let them discover their fragility, let them learn about gentleness, laissez-les vivre.
I may be wrong. There are countless reasons for chaotic kitchens, laziness being the most likely. But out of all the ones I could think of, this was the most romantic. This is the only one that uplifts the Parisian dream.
"Talking plates, really Nicole?", my friend would quiz.
"Anything could happen", I'd say, "In Paris".