Fine as is: when you accidentally live a wabi-sabi life

I know a lot of people who make a big deal about the exterior of their pots and pans. And they gotta match. And the plates all have to match. And this is fine! If you need your pots and pans to shine like the day you got them, then that is completely fine. In fact, more power to y’all about that one, because I simply Do Not Have The Energy to keep up with that stuff.

(The exception is my kettle – I will make sure that mfer is pristine, you hear me? The way I drink coffee and tea, there is no excuse for my kettle to be unpresentable, tf)

I can tell you exactly why I’m like this, too, and it’s equal parts “oh that makes sense” and “wait what” when you think about it.

The first reason: I grew up in a home where we just didn’t have means. A matched set of dishware was considered high luxury – by which, I mean the entire set of plates match the bowls match the saucers match the mugs et cetera ad nauseam (ad nauseam here isn’t any kind of insult – it’s just that this could literally go on FOREVER if I don’t stop somewhere). It was the aunt who I considered to be rich growing up who had that kind of thing going on.

Meanwhile, at my house, things matched-ish? Like, things didn’t come from the same set or anything, but if you squint, everything goes together. Or there’s a combination of things that are so wildly apart that they work together.

Now, in my own little corner of the world, things once again match-ish with each other. I have an assortment of dishes that came to me in the handparting that don’t necessarily match, but when put together, have a certain level of charm. And I like this. It’s like putting together an outfit.

For that matter the cookware ain’t quite matching either. But it doesn’t break the utility. In fact, I’d actually argue that it helps me to make a system when I cook. And things are close enough that when I have to make, say, a monster sized japanese style pancake, I can go from one skillet to another without the size difference being a problem.

The second reason, which I found out there’s a name for, is wabi-sabi. Part of the definition is finding the beauty in transience or imperfection. While this often applies to art, I find that also applies to things in life: the mismatch of a homey kitchen; the rip in a denim jacket that turns out to look rather artistic; an imperfect assembly of furniture that, taken individually, makes no sense, but when applied as a set, has a certain charm.

And damn if that ain’t everything about me, too: I’m damaged, imperfect, and don’t quite fit in with a lot of things.

But in the end, that’s beautiful.