Saying Goodbye to My KitchenAid
The part between leaving and arriving.
I love change. Change is good. I know this. New places, new experiences. What I don’t love is the process of change. The “in between.”
You know the feeling. Between leaving and arriving. You’re not where you were. Not where you’re going yet. Just suspended. Holding on to one life while the other one isn’t ready for you.
That’s where I am right now. Standing in my kitchen in Portland. And I can’t stop staring at my KitchenAid.
We moved to Portland a few years ago from Florida. We hated it there. That’s a strong word “hate”, but it’s accurate and I’m not afraid to use it.
We love Portland. The climate. The seasons. The views of Mt. Hood. The diversity! I love our apartment. We have a terrace with raised, self-watering garden beds where I can grow whatever I want.
It’s the exact opposite of Florida in all the right ways. No more oppressively hot summers. No more worrying about living through a hurricane on some billionaire’s yacht.
Instead of constantly being on alert we feel like we belong. I’m not afraid of what might happen if I accidentally act “too gay.”
My dog Chase loves it too. We walk the neighborhood four to five times a day, every day. Not a day goes by we don’t discover something new.
Some kind of flower has just bloomed. Or a plant species I’ve never seen before. Someone has put out a new set of chimes (I love chimes, Cade can’t stand them). Another progress flag appears, or a lawn sign professing someone’s commitment to equality.
In fact, we just returned from a walk and at the same time ended a call with my husband Cade. We’re moving again. The moving isn’t new. We’ve moved a dozen times in the 14 years we’ve been together.
This time it’s different. Harder.
We’re moving to Cade’s home country of Australia. I love it there. Not only that, but Cade’s dad is there. If you could meet him, you would understand why that’s a pretty good reason in itself.
So are Cade’s brother and his girlfriend. And shortly after we arrive, there will be a baby. We will be guncles and we couldn’t be more excited!
But Cade is away on rotation and with the move only a few months away, I need to start selling all the things that can’t go with. That’s what we were talking about.
I told him I don’t know where to start. He said “start with the Kitchenaid.” My big red mixer that I’ve had for as long as I can remember.
It was one of the first big equipment items I purchased back when I was teaching cooking lessons at Cook’s of Crocus Hill in Minneapolis. Not long before my yachting career started.
I don’t really use it anymore. Since I quit yachting, and all but quit cooking as well. But it had survived every move since then.
It lived in storage for the four years we were in Nicaragua. It has had a prominent location in every other place we’ve lived since.
This time, it can’t come with. This is the big move. Across continents and hemispheres. It weighs too much, and would require a power adapter to even plug it in anyway.
But if I never use it, why is it freaking me out to list it? Why does it feel like my heart is going to break? Or that my entire life is going to unravel if I sell it?
It’s because my life IS going to unravel when it’s gone. Along with just about everything else that has its place in our home.
Every piece of furniture. Anything that doesn’t fit into a suitcase. Anything that doesn’t fit the airline weight restrictions.
Whether I use them or not, many of those things are reminders of times and events in my life that hold significant meaning.
You’ve probably said this… “they’re just things.”
It’s true. Maybe it’s silly, I’ve even thought about taking pictures of the “just things.”
But there’s more. When my surroundings change, so do I.
Because a couple of years ago the diagnosis arrived. ADHD. And since then, so have years of small recognitions.
A thought, a memory. Something clicks into place. Oh. That’s why I did that. That’s why it felt so big when it shouldn’t have.
That’s what’s happening right now, standing in my kitchen, looking at this mixer.
I know now why I need my surroundings a certain way. Why I put everything in exactly the same spot when I’m not using it. For most of my life I just didn’t have a name for it.
Where there was no structure, I created it. Because without structure I become overstimulated, anxious, and often unbearable for anyone else to be around.
The funny thing is, I’ve been constantly moving and traveling for years, knowing all of this happens every time.
On a smaller scale, when we travel, it’s getting from one place to the next that I struggle with. Once we arrive at a destination, I immediately put my “things” in the place where they will live until we leave again.
Moving is much harder. When everything we own is in boxes. Not knowing where they are going to be until we finally get to the new place and I’ve put them where they belong.
The truth is, I don’t even know where to start.
When I try to think about packing this apartment up, I don’t see steps. I see what it looks like right now, and I see what it will look like when it’s empty. Nothing in between. No sequence. Just the before and the after, with a blank space where the how is supposed to be.
Cade will be here for a good part of this, once his rotation ends. But right now I’m standing in the middle of it alone. And this time, it’s not boxes. It’s suitcases. And most of it isn’t coming with.
That’s what’s different about this move. It’s not just the fact that it’s a bigger move. Or that the amount of time of feeling like I’m in limbo and don’t belong anywhere is going to last longer.
It’s knowing that none of those things that make my house a home, are going to be there. Ever again.
So as our home starts to become dismantled, and my surroundings begin to change, I’ll be saying goodbye to all of the things that make me feel safe. Whether I use them or not, they will disappear. The corner where my big red KitchenAid sits will be empty.
And until we’re settled, and everything we do still have gets put where it belongs, I’m going to feel lost. Without structure. Without all of the safety nets that keep my brain from feeling “off.”
I’m going to feel anxious, confused, and worst of all like I don’t belong where I am.
Maybe you know that feeling too.
Mine starts the day the KitchenAid goes.
—R. Michael
R. Michael is a former yacht chef, a married gay father, and a late-diagnosed neurodivergent writer. He tells his own stories, but he writes them for you, hoping you found something here to connect with. This is Ungarnished.
A new conversation happens every week, and you’re invited. Come as you are.
I TOTALLY understand your feelings with this. Those items are NOT just “things”, they are filled with happy memories, moments in time, stability. They’ve been in every chapter of your story, your growth. They’ve become a part of YOU, so letting go of these, is like losing a piece of you. I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, but that’s what “things” in my kitchen/ home represent to me. I know the process is hard, but I also know how strong you are and that everything WILL be ok.
For me, I look at all my “things” and how I’ve cared for them, kept them running, protected them and the thought of them going to an unknown place, definitely makes me feel uneasy. ❤️
Sell the Kitchen Aid last. And if I were in your place, I'd write about the adventures you've had with it. Not giant adventures, just remembering things you've made, successes and failures, etc.