The bin lives on a metal shelf in my parents' basement, between the Christmas decorations and a box labeled "NOLAN TROPHIES DO NOT THROW OUT" in my mom's handwriting. It's a clear plastic tub with a lid that doesn't quite snap anymore. On a piece of masking tape across the front, I wrote "Megan, kitchen, someday."
Right now it holds four mugs, a cast iron skillet and a growing amount of my optimism.
Why start a kitchen when I don't have an apartment
I'm not moving soon. I'm still in my old room in Wilmette, still paying down student loans, and I've got an emergency fund to finish before I even think about a lease. But in August I walked past rental signs in Evanston and Skokie and put rough prices on a studio. One thing jumped out when I added up move-in costs: all the small stuff. Plates, a pan, a colander, a cutting board. Bought new all at once, a basic kitchen can easily run a few hundred dollars.
Bought secondhand, a few dollars at a time, over a year? That barely shows up on the club sheet. So I gave myself $15 a month out of my fun money for kitchen things, with one rule: it has to be something I'd actually use every week. No novelty egg cups.
Everything in the bin so far
Here's the full list as of this weekend, with what I paid:
- Four mugs, all different, $3 each: $12
- Cast iron skillet, 10 inches, slightly rusty: $6
- Six dinner plates, plain white, matching by some miracle: $9
- Four cereal bowls: $4
- Small saucepan with a lid: $5
- Sheet pan, a little warped but flat enough: $3
- Glass mixing bowl: $4
- Colander: $2
- Six drinking glasses, 50 cents each: $3
- Wooden cutting board: $5
That's $53 total since early October. My mom has also been quietly adding things she says are duplicates, like a ladle, a whisk and a set of wooden spoons. I have my doubts that she ever owned two whisks, but I'm not going to argue with free.
The skillet is the best thing in there. I found it at a church resale shop on a Saturday morning, under a pile of baking tins. It had orange rust on the bottom and a price sticker that said $6. My dad, who is very calm about almost everything, got genuinely excited when I brought it home. He spent that Sunday afternoon scrubbing it with steel wool and coarse salt, then rubbed it with oil and baked it upside down in the oven for an hour. The house smelled like a diner.
It's now black and smooth and probably the nicest pan any Wilson owns. I've cooked Sunday dinner in it twice already "to keep it seasoned," which is my excuse for borrowing my own future skillet.
What I won't buy used
A few things I'm planning to buy new when the time comes. Nonstick pans, because old scratched coating isn't something I want flaking into eggs. Knives, because a dull thrift knife is more dangerous than useful, and one good chef's knife is enough. Anything plastic that touches food, like storage containers, which tend to be stained or warped by the time they get donated. And small appliances that are hard to check in the store. A toaster that doesn't toast isn't a deal at $4.
I don't make special trips. I just stop into a thrift store or one of the local resale shops if I'm already nearby, usually after running errands on Green Bay Road or on the way home from the office. I give myself ten minutes and I walk straight to the kitchen aisle. If nothing on my list is there, I leave. That ten-minute limit is doing a lot of work, because otherwise I would absolutely come home with a lamp shaped like a duck.
I keep a running list in my notes app of what's still missing: a stockpot, a baking dish, a set of measuring cups, a small cutting board for garlic and onions. When I find something, I cross it off and write the price in the club sheet. Fifteen dollars a month isn't a lot, and that's the point. It feels like a hobby instead of a bill.
The lid still doesn't snap, so I put a can of tomatoes on top to hold it down. My mom keeps asking whether I want to cook with them. I tell her they're structural.
