There is probably a medical term for whatever happens to people who become emotionally attached to cookware, but I am not interested in receiving a diagnosis at this time.
My relationship with Le Creuset started vaguely, almost accidentally. I grew up French Canadian and remember seeing those heavy colourful pots somewhere in the orbit of family life, although I honestly could not tell you whose kitchen they belonged to. We certainly did not own one. They were far too expensive for that. But I knew someone in the family, or maybe extended family, had one sitting on a stove with something simmering inside it. One of those objects you notice as a kid without really understanding why it seems important.
Then I discovered Julia Child.
Or more specifically, I became deeply obsessed with The French Chef on PBS, which is essentially how many food people accidentally ruin their financial future.
There she was, towering over a stove, aggressively flinging onions into a Dutch oven while making boeuf bourguignon look both impossible and completely achievable. I remember staring at that pot almost as much as the food itself. And the strange thing was that the dish already felt familiar to me because my mother made it regularly. Julia wasn’t introducing me to French cooking so much as turning it into theatre.
Years later I bought my own Dutch oven in Licorice. I told myself it was an investment piece, which is adult code for “I spent too much money on a pot but would prefer not to discuss it.”
Then came the Blueberry skillet.
Then the Cerise braiser.
For years, that was enough. Truly. I was stable. Emotionally grounded. Capable of walking past cookware displays without my heart rate changing.
Then I started cooking constantly.
And this is where things became dangerous.
Because once you cook all the time, you begin developing deeply irrational thoughts. Thoughts like: maybe I do need another Dutch oven because this one is slightly wider. Maybe soup tastes better in Sea Salt. Maybe I am the sort of person who deserves a special vessel specifically for braising short ribs.
Soon I was casually “checking” cookware websites several times a week like a man monitoring stock markets during an economic collapse. I wandered through HomeSense with the glazed expression of someone hoping to score discounted enameled cast iron next to the decorative pillows.
Last year I attended the factory to table sale in Montreal, which felt less like shopping and more like surviving a natural disaster alongside other emotionally compromised adults. People were wheeling carts piled with cookware through this crowded multipurpose space with the intensity of contestants on a game show. Someone near me gasped over a discontinued colour as though they had spotted a rare bird in the wild.
And naturally, I understood completely.
At some point the obsession expanded beyond pots. Bowls appeared. Mugs appeared. Tiny condiment dishes appeared. I have reached the phase where I know certain colours are only available in Japan, which is not information a mentally balanced person should possess.
I also developed extremely specific opinions about colour combinations. I don’t want everything matching. Matching is terrifying. I want a kitchen that feels lived in, a little unruly, and just polished enough to make the chaos look intentional. Cerise beside Blueberry beside Licorice, with a few greens and yellows thrown in for emotional instability. Then the questions start. Do I need Brioche? What about Rhône? Pomegranate? And Flamme, the iconic colour I somehow still do not own despite this entire situation clearly being its fault. There is a very thin line between curating a collection and letting it quietly take over your personality. I keep circling the now discontinued Garnet too, mostly because wanting unavailable things is apparently part of the experience. Controlled chaos.
The thing I keep insisting to people is that I’m not a collector.
Collectors display things.
I use these constantly. Soups, braises, stews, sauces, roasted vegetables. The pots are stained. The skillets are heavy enough to qualify as upper body exercise. At least twice a week I nearly drop one on my toes, which feels like the inevitable consequence of wanting cookware built like medieval infrastructure.
Still, I have accepted that I am part of an enormous online ecosystem of people who discuss Dutch ovens with unsettling intensity. There are TikToks. Shelf tours. Colour ranking debates. Entire communities dedicated to spotting rare pieces at discount stores. Society is hanging by a thread.
But I understand it now.
Cooking becomes such a central rhythm in your life that the objects attached to it start absorbing memories. A certain pot reminds you of snowstorms and soup. Another reminds you of making dinner for friends. Another reminds you of the six hour beef stew you started at noon because you apparently enjoy turning ordinary Sundays into culinary hostage situations.
And honestly, there are worse obsessions to have. Some people buy sports cars. Some people climb Mount Everest. I stand in my kitchen staring lovingly at enameled cast iron while onions caramelize for forty five minutes.
We all find meaning where we can.