There is a theory about happiness--recently backed up by new research--that It's the Little Things. The problem is that the idea is so cliche and Hallmark it makes me wanna pull out my fingernails with pliers. Problem is also that it's true. So, you know, it's the sun patch on the couch, the perfect 80-degree day, my grey-and-purple striped cotton bikini underwear.
And the Oxo peeler.
I've tried, in the past, to explain my preoccupation--and great pleasure--with peelers to people. Years ago when I lived with roommates and we'd just moved in and were unpacking the kitchen together, one of them noticed that I had a lot of peelers. I had my mother's old metal peeler, with the wide V-shaped handle and the old wobbly blade (a little uncomfortable, but picturesque, evokes Grandma Hazel peeling carrots for Sunday dinner, served promptly at noon, after church, pot roast or fried chicken). I had the narrow, pencil-shaped metal peeler, imported from France, compact and lightweight, good for the little potatoes or for peeling a whole apple without breaking the peel (that's SUPER-fun!). I had the fat white plastic peeler--the predecessor to the Oxo peeler--with a full-handed grip, and a solid blade that meant business and that gave what-for to every vegetable it met. So I explained all this to her and the bitch looked at me like I was crazy.
So I like peelers, but I love the Oxo peeler. Same fat handle, but in a techno-forward black rubber that just barely gives in your grip, like the handle of a high-tech racing bike. The edges of the handle just below the blade are striated and slip-proof, safety guards positioned exactly beneath the thumb and index finger, so there's never any question of Who's The Master as you lodge the peeler blade in the tough veggie skin and slide it down, merciless and focussed. The plastic blade-frame curves geometretically, a perfect black plastic semi-circle with a sharp tip brilliantly engineered to gouge out any brown spots.
It's an un rivalled peeling experience that renews itself with every carrot stick I confront, a guaranteed moment of perfect peeling pleasure.