I love a saucepan.

That's right, a saucepan. It aint sexy, but it sure is practical.

Can you think of a word less sexy than 'practical'?

Even though this saucepan is ginormous, it holds a heck of a lot more than sauce. I actually bought it so I could make Hainanese Chicken Rice properly. It's a delish dish (try saying that ten times after tequila). You should try it.

But Hainanese Chicken Rice really isn't my point.

My point is, I love a saucepan. I was thrilled when I saw it, I did a little happy dance of joy when I noticed the price tag, and I carried it all the way home in the rain like a devoted mother.

This isn't lost on me, that I have developed an unsexy love for kitchenware. While strutting home with my new pan, I may as well have walked past a signpost that declared, Look at you Nat! You are getting old! You happily bought a saucepan instead of shoes, makeup, hair products or vodka! Way to go, nanna!

I'm not quite sure how this happened, but somewhere in the recent past I became domesticated. And now I find myself wanting things like saucepans, and one of those mortar and pestle thingys.

When I was five I wanted a toy kitchen set (oh the full-circle-ness of it all)

When I was ten I wanted a hot pink Barbie car (I never got it, thanks mum)

When I was fifteen I wanted desperately to be cool and have hair that stood up (it never did)

When I was twenty I wanted as many glasses of Jack Daniels as I could stomach (which was a lot)

When I was twenty-five I wanted a husband (I found only frogs while the prince was still stuffing around with some other bird somewhere)

When I was thirty I wanted... a shiny new saucepan (and here it is).

I do wonder what will I want when I'm thirty-five... Most likely a mini human.

When I'm forty? Most likely time away from those mini humans.

When I'm forty-five? Yikes, that sounds so old. Can we stop here?

Ahh a shiny new saucepan... tra la la.