All my life, I’ve heard folks prattle on about their cookware crushes. A French butter keeper? I’ll take it or leave it. Mandolin? Give me a good chef’s blade, and I’m happy. Fancy double-boiler? A pan and bowl, please.
Don’t get me wrong. There’s a lot that I appreciate: good knives, appropriate tools, even my pizzelle maker is valued come holiday time. And I adore my All-Clad copper; it’s perfectly practical and lovely to look at—who could ask for more? I certainly didn’t think that I could—until my Le Creuset came along.
There are three distinct rationales for why my 7.5 Quart Dijon-Hued French Oven is flawless.
1. The light interior. While cooking demands effort from each of the senses, sight is high on the handy-in-the-kitchen list. I like a clear view of how things are browning, crisping, caramelizing, and nothing is as lucid on the flame as the creamy white of a Le Creuset interior. Dimly-lit kitchen beware: I can now cook into all hours of the evening.
2. The even-keeled convection. Let those flames lick. My Le Creuset will distribute them across the surface with ease. Lamb chops on one side, okra on the other—each has its share of heat, and nothing comes out black-n-blue.
3. The practicality. A serious piece of cookware in a pretty enamel coat. Isn’t that what most women are after anyway?
4. The clean-up. Bring on your ugly, your fond and your sear, your sticky balsamic and brown-sugar salmon. My Le Creuset will take nothing more than the coarse side of a kitchen sponge to wax spotless.
I know, I know, it’s the expense, but, at some point in your life, they’ll be a perfect moment: it will start with a glance across the showroom; then a touch, maybe (accidental or intentional?); you’ll think of a thousand reasons why you shouldn’t, but none will matter. When you take her home, she’ll be everything you expected yet full of surprises; and, at some point, a lifetime won’t seem like long enough.