By Erin O’Brien

I select every kitchen gadget and accessory based not only on its technical specifications, but also on its physical appearance and my emotional connection to it. For instance, my lobster claw crackers are fire engine red and shaped like lobster claws, thereby making the instructions for use inherent in the design—a brilliant and economical achievement. In addition, the handle of my mini-whisk is shaped like an egg. But instead of a simple ovoid blob, this egg has feet and a tiny chicken face that bears an expression of sadness and dissatisfaction, as if it is judging me when whisk meets yolk. Hence, in this simple and effective device, there is somehow room for social commentary as well as an unexpected point of view—stunning. I also own a salt and pepper set that are two amputated feet with painted toenails. The shakers closely resemble my feet, although they sport only one color of polish versus the revolving rainbow I apply to my own toesies. The set was gifted to me by my freshman college roommate who, whenever it is appropriate, still enjoys recollecting my daily awakening back at McKinnon Hall on the South Green of Ohio University as I slid from the bunk above her. First was the appearance of my terrible feetsies, she’ll report, followed by the vee of my black undies and then finally my naked breasts. So the darling ceramic feet not only sprinkle the two most basic kitchen seasonings, they also deliver a subtle dusting of salad-day nostalgia.

But what might a garlic press echo?

My garlic press is completely utilitarian. Unlike the foot shakers, lobster claw cracker, and mini-whisk, it has no cute embellishments or cleverly shaped handles. (I do own a garlic roaster that is shaped like a head of garlic, but it failed to garner my adoration, [which might admittedly have to do with my failure to properly employ it]. It has been dispatched to the Cabinet of No Return along with a collection of unattractive vases, candles, mason jars, and an inexplicable set of six tiny painted wood Easter eggs still in the display box.) Although subtle in form, my garlic press is perhaps the most emotionally complex gadget in the drawer.

It is constructed of stainless steel so highly polished that I can use it to check my teeth for unwanted bits of oregano or poppy seeds (although I detest poppy seeds and have never once used them in cooking, but since they are the gold standard for items lodged betwixt teeth, I’ve included them in the preceding description). Moreover, since stainless steel removes garlic odor from the skin, I worry the press in my hands under running water after handling the garlic as a matter of hygiene for myself as well as the gadget. Since the curvy design of the press begs to be handled, it all culminates to a nearly perfect garlic crushing experience replete with power: The universe is in my hand and at my command.

That said, I am deeply ambivalent towards my garlic press on a sexual level. On one hand, it echoes the thrilling njoy Pure Wand, which is a curved eight-inch affair that features a one-inch sphere on one end and a hefty one and a half-inch ball on the other. It weighs over one and a half-pounds and is constructed of the finest 316-grade surgical stainless steel, which was more or less the deciding factor in its purchase. If the material used to construct the njoy Pure Wand is worthy of your Aunt Ginger’s hip replacement, it’s surely worthy of my pudendum.

The resulting device is so efficacious that, should I ever be elected President of the United States, my first order of business will be to send every adult American woman an njoy Pure Wand. Believe me, the state of the Union will improve remarkably within a half hour. To hell with your economic incentive checks, stimulus bills, and recovery plans.

Savory garlic to my right, joyous orgasms to my left: wherein lies the conundrum?

There is another curvy device fashioned from shiny steel that bears an uncanny resemblance to my garlic press and is regularly inserted into vaginas daily from coast to coast. Its appearance is usually preceded by the donning of a medical examination gown, the guidance of feet into stirrups, and the impossible command to “Relax.” Oh really? The mere mention of the word speculum sends most women (myself included) running for the nearest tavern.

Hence, when I hold this common kitchen gadget in my hand, so benign and familiar, I find myself at once filled with the trepidation of the gynecologist’s waiting room as well as the heady recollections of my last session with my favorite marital aid. I blink at the press beneath a knitted brow and sigh.

“What did I say I was making again, honey?”

Erin O’Brien’s eclectic features and essays have appeared in the Cleveland Plain Dealer, the Los Angeles Times, and Scene. Her writing explores everything from vampires to politics to human sexuality. O’Brien has also contributed to Muse, Angle, and Northern Ohio Live. Her novel, Harvey & Eck, was published by Zumaya in 2005. She’s also published three short stories and maintains a rollicking blog, “The Erin O’Brien Owner’s Manual for Human Beings.” Visit erinobrien.us for more information.