Annual Performance Reviews for My Kitchen Staff

Featuring Betty, Flo, Phyllis, and Susan, who does not technically work here.

My kitchen appliances all have names, which is either charming or evidence for the prosecution.

To be fair, it isn't just the kitchen.

I name everything.

The TVs have names. The lights have names. At this point, if something in my house plugs into a wall, responds to an app, blinks, beeps, heats, cools, vacuums, or occasionally ruins my day, there is a strong chance I have given it a name and assigned it a personality.

This is either adorable or a warning sign.

Possibly both.

But we're starting with the kitchen because that's where I spend most of my time.

I cook a lot.

Not influencer-cook.

Real-person cook.

The kind of cooking where I buy whatever looks good at the grocery, bring it home with misplaced confidence, and then figure out how to turn it into dinner before everyone starts circling the kitchen like raccoons near an overturned trash can.

This is not meal planning.

This is ingredient-based gambling.

There are always vegetables in the refrigerator. There is usually broth on hand. There are multiple cheeses because I am not a monster.

Actually, there are more than multiple cheeses.

There is base cheese, backup cheese, emotional support cheese, and cheese I bought because it looked lonely.

Every leftover is clearly labeled with a dry-erase marker because Future Me deserves answers.

Future Me may still choose to stand in front of the refrigerator with the door open, reading labels like she's studying ancient ruins, but at least the information is available.

I spend enough time in this kitchen that I've accidentally developed working relationships with all of them.

So, in the interest of fairness, I have completed annual performance reviews for the staff of my kitchen.

And Susan.

Susan doesn't technically work in the kitchen, but Susan doesn't technically work anywhere, so here we are.

Betty (Rice Cooker)

When Betty first entered my life, I thought she was ridiculous.

I had been making rice on the stove for decades. Why would I need a machine devoted entirely to one side dish?

The fact that I was personally bad at making rice did not seem relevant at the time.

This is how confident stupid people are before growth.

Betty has since become one of the most trusted employees in the organization.

Rice? Done.

Quinoa? Done.

Couscous? Sure.

She never complains. She never burns dinner. She simply shows up and does her job.

Is she perfect?

No.

Betty has an unusual relationship with time.

Everything takes twenty-four minutes longer than I think it should.

I don't know why. I don't know where those minutes go. I don't know if Betty is slow or if I simply refuse to learn, but we've agreed not to discuss it.

I only know that when Betty says dinner will be ready soon, "soon" is a concept, not a measurement.

Occasionally, she also produces rice with the consistency of kindergarten paste for reasons known only to her and whatever tiny rice-cooking demons live inside the machine.

Still.

Excellent employee.

Would absolutely renew contract.

Dorothy & Mabel (The Crockpots)

These two are the backbone of the operation.

Dorothy and Mabel are dependable, hardworking, and incapable of drama.

I put ingredients into them, walk away for eight hours, and return to a complete meal.

No complaints.

No flashing error codes.

No software updates.

No app required.

I cannot overstate how important that is.

I do not need my pot roast to connect to Bluetooth.

I need it to become dinner.

I imagine Dorothy and Mabel have been feeding church picnics, funeral luncheons, and exhausted mothers since 1957.

Frankly, if I disappeared under mysterious circumstances, these are the women I would trust to keep things running until my return.

Or help hide the body.

I'm not specifying whose.

Flo (Refrigerator)

Flo may be my most impressive employee.

She's smaller than most refrigerators.

Much smaller.

I had to remove one of the shelves just so a pitcher would fit.

And yet somehow she continues to accommodate my increasingly unreasonable lifestyle.

Most people have a vegetable drawer.

I apparently operate a produce rehabilitation center and wayward home for cheese.

There are peppers. There are tomatoes. There are carrots. There are herbs standing upright in water.

The asparagus gets its own mug.

I don't know when I became the sort of person who hydrates vegetables, but here we are.

I used to think people who put herbs in water were trying too hard.

Now I have asparagus in drinkware.

Growth is complicated.

Flo also manages the cheese situation.

One entire section is devoted to cheese.

There is overflow cheese elsewhere.

There is cheese for cooking, cheese for snacking, cheese for emergencies, and cheese I have no immediate plan for but purchased because I respect opportunity.

I refuse to discuss the numbers.

Flo asks no questions.

She simply keeps everything fresh and enables my behavior.

That is all I have ever asked from a refrigerator or a friend.

Claire (Stove/Oven)

Claire is the most talented employee on staff.

Claire knows this.

She can run two ovens at two different temperatures simultaneously. She can bake cookies while roasting vegetables. She can convection bake. She can convection roast. She can probably communicate with satellites if given enough motivation.

Unfortunately, Claire occasionally becomes overwhelmed by her own brilliance.

Every now and then, she develops a mysterious electronic condition that requires me to go to the basement and flip the breaker.

Sometimes her oven light comes on for no reason.

Nothing is wrong.

She simply wishes to be perceived.

This is relatable.

I, too, occasionally require people to acknowledge that I am still on.

Recently, she needed replacement parts that apparently no longer exist despite being nowhere near retirement age.

She's difficult.

But she's worth it.

Mackenzie (Air Fryer)

Mackenzie is the youngest employee in the kitchen, and she knows it.

While the rest of the staff gained experience through years of hard work, Mackenzie watched three TikToks and immediately became an expert.

She has good skin, unnecessary confidence, and somehow makes me feel old while cooking chicken.

Rude.

I didn't think I needed an air fryer.

Then I got one.

Now I occasionally spend an entire week convinced Mackenzie is the greatest invention in human history.

She has the confidence of a much larger appliance.

Unfortunately, she has the capacity of a studio apartment.

Mackenzie makes incredible food.

For three people.

If two of them aren't very hungry.

Every air fryer recipe assumes you're preparing dinner for yourself and one emotionally supportive squirrel.

Yet somehow she keeps proving herself right.

It's irritating.

Barbara (Mixer)

Barbara spends most of the year quietly sitting in the corner.

Watching.

Waiting.

Judging.

She's red, heavy, and slightly intimidating.

She looks less like an appliance and more like something your grandmother would leave you in a will with no explanation.

Then the holidays arrive.

Suddenly, she's everywhere.

Cookies.

Cakes.

Bread.

Frosting.

Barbara doesn't work often, but when she does, she expects applause.

Honestly?

Fair.

She's earned it.

Phyllis (Dishwasher)

Phyllis and I had creative differences.

Technically, Phyllis washes dishes.

In practice, Phyllis leaves water spots on glasses, makes alarming noises, and somehow creates more work than she prevents.

I haven't used Phyllis in five years.

Five.

Years.

At this point, Phyllis is less of an appliance and more of a decorative cabinet with abandonment issues.

She currently resides behind a garbage can.

Not because I planned it that way.

It just happened naturally, the way some relationships end slowly over time, and then one day you're blocking access with household waste.

I wish her nothing but peace and happiness.

Somewhere else.

Susan (Roomba)

Susan doesn't technically work in the kitchen.

Susan works wherever her little robot heart takes her.

Calling Susan a vacuum is generous.

Susan is more of an indoor exploratory vehicle.

She begins every cleaning cycle full of confidence and determination.

Forty-five minutes later, I find her trapped beneath a chair, blinking helplessly at a wall she's apparently been attempting to conquer since noon.

Sometimes Susan cleans an entire room.

Sometimes she spends twenty minutes aggressively vacuuming a single square foot of carpet as if she has a personal vendetta against that particular dust molecule.

Occasionally, she simply disappears.

The app says Susan is cleaning.

Susan is, in fact, upside down behind the Christmas decorations.

The fact that Michael regularly asks, "What's Susan doing now?" tells me she has officially crossed the line from appliance to family member.

I don't trust Susan to clean the house.

I don't trust Susan to finish a task.

I don't trust Susan to find her way home.

But I do trust Susan to be Susan.

And if I'm being honest, Susan and I have a lot in common.

We both begin every project with confidence, good intentions, and a solid plan.

We both get distracted.

We both occasionally spend too much time in one corner.

And neither of us enjoys being told we missed a spot.

What happens after that is anybody's guess.