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. (more…)