Identity

I am a Responsible Wok Owner

In the life of a freelancer, there are times of feast and times of famine. Sometimes it’s raining dollarbucks, sometimes there’s a leaky pipe in the wall and the moisture on your youngest’s bedroom floor you were blaming on the kitten is a mould creation situation. This week is the latter, and it stinks in all the ways. But long ago, when the cozzies of livs were a smidge less cozz, I purchased for myself (and ostensibly the family) a Very Good Wok.

It sat in its box for many a month because I was intimidated. One Sunday during the rare occasion I remembered to take my PM dexy dose, I burrowed into the box and set the wok free at long last. Inside was a perfectly sized box to fit inside the first box, so each child got one and the eldest swiftly turned theirs into DJ decks. The youngest wailed that they actually wanted the other box and nothing else would ever make them happy, for about an hour and twenty minutes. Big feelings when it’s too late - I get it.

I marvelled at the handles, the accessories and the small brochure. It had a QR code that took me to a video series of how to use this thing and not fuck it up like you did the last one (and also the tagine and the crepe pan). I watched the instructional volumes paying close attention, and made a shopping list for what I would cook tomorrow while repeating the phrase “beautiful, well-developed patina” with deep reverence to myself. Tonight, it would be honey chicken - just like a bought one from a shop! I kicked off by cooking some scrambled egg after a single round of seasoning the wok and marvelled at how slippery and non-stick it was. I was a wok alpha!

For the next big chunk of time I went into hyperfocus mode, listening to an audiobook of But the Girl by Jessica Zhan Mei Yu and doing all the steps to make my family an incredible feast. For that reason, every time I use the wok I am transported to a writers retreat in Scotland with impostor syndrome. Making the chicken took seven thousand years and my entire body was on pain fire by the end. The kids didn’t like it and ate cheese toasties instead but Mrs Peach and I very much enjoyed our dish. I looked forward to making fried rice with the leftover rice the next day.

An assortment of chopped veggies being stir fried in a wok that has a beautiful well-developed patina.

After the kids were in bed I realised with horror it was time to be a responsible wok owner. I couldn’t leave it to fester, rot and rust. Every time I use the wok now, I clean it, season it, and say out loud to myself “I am a Responsible Wok Owner”. Sometimes I say these words before I’ve shown any effort whatsoever, to trick myself into doing the thing. It works for “I’m up!” too - you can say it when you’re still in bed and haven’t yet had the capacity to crack an eyelid!

Mrs Peach and I long ago perfected the call for praise. If either of us really has to slog uphill to do a thing (calling the insurance company about the leaky pipe bonanza), we inform the other that we did a thing (moving all of the stuff from the bedroom into other spaces in the house to reduce mould infestation), and would require praise immediately. We are direct, sincere, and a bit flowery with our effusive piles of applauding words. I’m into it. An earlier version of this was one of us barking PRAISE ONLY at the other, when any kind of misdirected constructive commentary was uttered out loud. Like a natural, well-developed patina, it has become durable and refined over time. 

Big love, be safe, stay warm, byeybye!