Spices, anyone? If you’ve got needs, I’ve got jars. Let’s talk.
All my life I have been perplexed by the combination of fine wine, say, or glorious cabinetry with shoddy storage of poorly cared-for ingredients. This is why I pour my dish soap into a handsome minimalist pump bottle and it’s why I store food in clear glass jars with lids that please the eye. Basically, I want my cumin to elicit in me the same feelings I get from the Chablis.
True luxury is not, for me, about eclipsing the cheap with the opulent. Rather, it is about the absence of mediocrity. To not have to encounter anything I do not find pleasing and beautiful—that is to live luxuriously.
Putting things in order is not only a talent of mine, but also a compulsion. To make things neat, clean, clear, accessible, useful, and beautiful. I like the way it feels when things are this way. Crucially, I dislike it instensely when they aren’t. That’s why organizational skills are so hard to teach: when people are not driven by stomach-turning disdain for chaos, they tend to feel resistance toward the effort required for structure and discipline.
In other words, those of you who really, really want your spices in perfect order probably already have them in order. The rest of you, on the other hand, likely treasure the convenience of leaving your spices just as they are, even as you might appreciate what I’m up to with all my pretty jars. So who is my audience? I suppose it’s someone who would like me to assemble her or his spice collection. Or maybe a fellow overthinker who wants a pek at my notes.
So here’s a look at three spice collections I curated in early summer, tailored to three different home kitchens and the needs of the cooks. One was for my apartment in the city, where I do most of my cooking and nearly all of my recipe development. The other was for my cabin kitchen, where I make simpler food, much of it in the spirit of Ayurveda. The third was a gift for my friends in Odsherred, Denmark, who had just had a new kitchen installed.
Storage area measurements. Eating habits. Favorite flavors. Cooking styles. Mealtime needs. All of this matters. And, in the case of making a spice kit for friends, supply levels. Do you want a little or a lot? Shall I fill the jar or just label an empty one? Will you be needing just one for the whole spice, or do you use both the whole and the ground? Cinnamon, say—cassia or Ceylon? Powdered or in sticks? How about a separate jar for the cinnamon sugar? (I keep both types in stick form, but only Ceylon as powder. As to cinnamon sugar I don’t keep it pre-mixed but make it for the table as needed. My Danish friends, in turn, like cassia sticks and Ceylon powder and a dedicated jar of super-strong cinnamon sugar that’s like 60% cinnamon.) How about something like lavender or dried sage—do you even keep this with the spices, or does it get stored with your teas? Rosemary, oregano, thyme—do you need these in jars, or do they grow in your garden year-round? How about baking powder, or candied orange peel, or chia seeds, or all the salt types you use, or, in fact, tea? Do you think of any of those as spices? Do you want room for them—and jars for them—in your spice cabinet or drawer? A collection of spices is as much a philosophical and taxonomic creation as it is a culinary one.
I like a drawer for spices, one comfortably far from the heat of the stove and other appliances, though close enough to the main prep counter to still be in reach. I like glass jars in a range of sizes and I like a handwritten label that’s easily removed and reapplied, so that I can adjust container sizes as the supply levels dwindle and swell. At-a-glance legibility is nice, too, so the contrast of white marker on black masking tape is a favorite.
As to which spices make the cut, it’s a dance. Because yes, I use tons of cumin, I rarely reach for the allspice, and I keep three kinds of cinnamon on hand, but sometimes I discover new needs and interests. These days I’m experimenting with mace, both whole and ground, in addition to the nutmeg, and I’m giving pink peppercorns a chance. But the powdered galangal and the pre-mixed curry powders are gone. In a month or two I’m bound to be trying some new things, relinquishing others. Habits are strong but they do evolve. Curious cooks need a turn with ajowan, aniseed, or annatto—even if it’s just a passing phase.
I’ll finish here and leave you with the pretty pictures, though I have much more to say about choosing, storing, and using spices. Until I write a book on the subject, feel free to reach out and ask me a question—or ask me over to help you figure out your bespoke approach to the life of spice.
First up is my city home collection. What those tapered small jars lack in stability they make up for in loveliness. And while black ink invariably lends itself to better penmanship than metallic or white ink, I need better low-light legibility than I get with thin black marker on blue masking tape, so one of these days I’ll be spending a satisfying hour or two on redoing those labels.
Next we have my cabin mini-set, featuring a streamlined everyday kit plus a few random items, like that surplus of caraway, which I ordinarily wouldn’t stock at my away home. Or raspberry leaf, destined for a season of living with the spices and not with the teas.
And here’s a glimpse at the kit-in-progress I assembled for friends. This one really came together once I was working on it in their home, with active input from both cooks and access to all of the interim baggies and containers of spice used to fill or top off the jars in the collection.
