Grease is good

In a sticky situation? William Sieghart prescribes a poetic cure for guilt

Our lives are not always what we wish them to be. Often, neither are our stoves. A well-used kitchen cannot look like the untouched, sparkling vision of many a contemporary cookbook’s cover, just as a truly lived-in life will never resemble a stock photo.

Life demands that we prioritise, that we make choices about what matters and what does not; at times it can feel like a particularly unglamorous game of “Would You Rather”. Yet it is hugely important that we devote a good portion of our precious time not to cleaning, but to all of the wonderful activities that make it necessary in the first place: to cooking ourselves a dish we love after a long day, or putting on a delicious feast for a gathering of friends and loved ones. Why, then, are we so ashamed of grease, this symbol of life, of joy?

It is no surprise that scrubbing our kitchen appliances falls to the bottom of the list from time to time. Indeed, it would be easy to argue that a clean kitchen represents skewed priorities, a sort of profligacy with a limited resource. Why is the tablecloth more worthy of your time than, say, a book, or a conversation, or a game?

It seems to me eminently sensible to spend time on those things that enrich us, instead of a never-ending battle with dirt. If only more of us had read this glorious poem by Grace Nichols. In a world of people obsessed with kitchens that look like they have never been used, and ashamed of their own greasy stoves, messy stairs and imperfect, cluttered lives, Nichols frames grease and grime as welcome visitors, rather than invading armies.

I am having an affair with grease, she says, and she says it without shame or resentment. Say it with her: we are having an affair with grease – and our lives are immeasurably richer as a result.

William Sieghart

GREASE BY GRACE NICHOLS

Grease steals in like a lover over the body of my oven. Grease kisses the knobs of my stove.

Grease plays with the small hands of my spoons.

Grease caresses the skin of my table-cloth,

Grease reassures me that

life is naturally sticky.

The Poetry Pharmacy Returns is published by Particular (£12.99)

Grease is obviously having an affair with me.