Oh, how I love my . . .

. . . ice cream maker. So we actually make the ice cream and the machine only spins it and makes it freezy, but I love that this machine is a part of my life. My regular old "we're out of ice cream again let's pick up some cream and half-and-half from Costco" kind of life. Also, someday, I will scout out a really awesome automatic ice cream maker, large capacity, and buy it, no matter how much it costs. Ours is good, but I know there are better give-yourself-the-gift-of-real-ice-cream contraptions out there.

. . . husband guy's popcorn maker. Yes, I consider it to be his. I mean, all I do with the thing is clean it. He's the one who always makes the popcorn. Maybe right about now you are picturing one of those horrible air poppers. Oh no. This is an oil popper. You add the oil (with canola or olive, it's NOT that bad for you, ok?) and the popcorn kernals to the little popping tray (I don't really know what it's called) cover it and plug it in. A little metal arm spins to stir the kernals while the tray itself heats up. After a few short minutes, you have real, delectable popcorn. You flip the whole thing upside down and the popcorn is now magically in its bowl. And it's actually good just like that, but butter and salt are our additions of choice. Caramel never hurt, either. I am actually a popcorn snob. I admit it. The last time I ate microwave popcorn, it tasted so funky to me and left a nastoid smell on my fingertips. That just ain't right.

. . . dishwasher. As I was about to tackle the mountain of dishes that mysteriously ended up in my sink when I arrived home from church, I remembered the days not so long ago when we didn't have a dishwasher. This was the first, oh, six years of our marriage. In Berkeley, we had this unbelievably miniscule kitchen. Three cabinets, one drawer, and not a speck of countertop anywhere. None. Unless you count the top of the washing machine, which was right next to the kitchen sink (happy thought indeed!). And, since I lived there for 2 1/2 years, I know quite well that if all you have as a counter is the top of a washing machine, you will use it and you will be grateful for it. But back to the dishwasher. There wasn't one. Next to the sink (which was also miniscule) there was just enough space for a little dish-drying rack. Let's just say that we spent a lot more of our precious time washing dishes than we do now. Now, as I type this, I can hear our dishwasher rhythmically humming and whooshing upstairs. I often fall asleep to this blessed, blessed noise.

I'll stop there. I'm not sure anyone needs to hear any more of my devotions to appliances. Maybe next time I'll write about some people I love. Nah, maybe food.