Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Earl lobbied for several years for us to purchase a Kitchen Aid mixer, the stand-alone variety that reeks of great chef-dom in the kitchen. I resisted. After all, my Mother managed to cook fairly decent meals with a paring knife and a hand-held, no-name mixer. Both of them were dull and old.

But finally I relented, and the forest green Kitchen Aid joined our family. It was when we lived at our previous house, where it complimented the forest green cookware that Earl owned when we merged households. It begged for acceptance on that account. And it, with the various forest green pots and pans, came when we moved to our most recent scaled-down abode.

However, I have never really liked the thing. It reeks of superiority (read: kitchen testosterone here.). It suggests we know what we’re doing. It makes a statement of superiority as it claims a corner of our granite countertop, while our other cookware huddles in cupboards and emerges only when needed. Its green-ness is always there.

Yet . . . to be fair: I have found merit of late in having such a mixer at hand. Over the fall, Earl and I have gotten into making quick breads, those sweet loaves that smell of pumpkin and cranberry and orange. Zucchini too. We’ve sifted and sorted and then mixed with the aid of our fancy-dancy Kitchen Aid; and I must admit it beats my Mother’s method of using a fork until your arm is ready to fall off.

So maybe “Trophy Mixer” isn’t the exact term I should use to explain my love/hate relationship with the green Kitchen Aid appliance. Maybe I should consider “Green-Servant-in-Waiting” or simply “Mix Master,” this latter spoken in the truest sense.