We moved into our apartment midway through the pandemic, lured via Zoom walkthrough by six west-facing windows that flooded the kitchen with an alleyway’s worth of golden light. The view itself was nothing to speak of — dumpsters, power lines, the occasional good dog sighting — but the light was generous, forgiving, the kind that makes even a chipped coffee mug glow like stained glass. By then, the building had already established what I’ve come to think of, with reverence, as The Free Table.
The Free Table began as a kind of informal commons, a collision point of surplus and need. A jar of peanut butter here, a paperback novel there, a box of CSA vegetables surrendered in defeat, half of them inevitably yellow squash, which, as we learned together last week in The Bite, deserve more tenderness than they usually get. Over time, the table became a miniature anthropology museum of our complex: a neighbor’s wardrobe culled and offered instead of resold, a twelve-year-old vacuum still chugging along, stacks of nonstick pans, an occasional air conditioner abandoned at the end of August.
It has its abuses (the anonymous donor of expired-coupon bundles, whoever you are, please reconsider) but I’ve come to believe in the karma of the table. You give, you take, you keep the cycle alive.
After two years of mostly small exchanges — cookbook galleys, costume jewelry, a set of dinner plates with just the right heft — we brought home something that, improbably, shifted the cadence of our cooking. Sitting there, square and silver, a little like an early-2000s desktop computer left to dream of glory, was a panini press.
Stephen was the one who spotted it, coming back from a dog walk — a walk that was already a circus act, with his parents’ two Cairn terriers and our wiry dachshund, Otto, plaiting their leashes into knots. Still, the panini press seemed urgent enough that he couldn’t risk leaving it downstairs even a moment longer. He muscled it into the cage elevator, leashes in hand, the machine balanced against his hip like a prize wrested from fate.
“Do you mind?” he asked, breathless at the threshold. I did not.
Within minutes, he’d coaxed it back to life, the coils glowing faintly, the faint metallic tang of dust burning off as he wiped away that unmistakable film of neglect. Then came the question every couple eventually faces: what to sacrifice in the name of possibility. On the island it was too conspicuous, on the prep table it threatened my workspace — the same one where, some mornings, I write this newsletter. We finally slid it next to the stovetop, agreeing to cede a sliver of counter in exchange for the promise of hot, pressed sandwiches.
“If it doesn’t earn its keep,” Stephen said with a shrug, “we can always clean it up and put it back on the Free Table.”
I don’t think we will.
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The first sandwich wasn’t elaborate, but it didn’t need to be: two slices of sourdough, a fold of honey-ham, a few strips of bacon gone glossy in the pan, Kewpie and mustard swirled together under a sheet of Swiss. Stephen tucked in a couple of bread-and-butter pickles for good measure, a kind of weeknight Cuban, improvised but persuasive. When the press closed, the cheese melted into the bread, the bacon crackled against the griddle, and the whole thing came out bronzed and hot, the kind of meal you eat standing up at the counter because waiting even a minute feels impossible.
In the height of August heat, it’s easy to forget the pleasure of hot food that doesn’t demand you light the oven, or that the simplest alchemy — bread and cheese toasted golden — can feel like a revelation.
Every week or so now, we have what I’ve started calling a panini party, though really it just means we’re in the mood for something hot pressed between bread. Sometimes it’s a pilgrimage to the old-school Italian market, where we’ll stand in front of the deli case debating over which mustard feels most essential, which cold cuts look most like a treat. Sometimes it’s the on-sale skirt steak, paired with whatever cheese is best in Murray’s bargain bin. More often it’s a crisper-drawer rescue mission: a few wilting peppers, a handful of herbs, the stubborn half-onion, all brought back to life with a swipe of aioli or one of the too-many condiments jostling for space on our refrigerator shelves.
The press has turned scraps into something ceremonial. Even budget dinners, the kind you’d normally rush through, take on the gravity of occasion when they emerge golden, oozing, crisp-edged. We kept joking that we rescued the press from the Free Table — but at this point, it feels more accurate to say it rescued us from dinner ennui.
Maybe that’s the real magic of a tool like this: not that it revolutionizes your cooking, but that it makes the most ordinary meal feel new again.
Which is funny, because for every panini press that quietly finds its way into rotation, there are half a dozen other appliances exiled to the cupboards, or worse — sent to their eternal rest on thrift-store shelves. Every kitchen has its own graveyard of gadgets: the blender purchased during a smoothie phase, the air fryer that seemed so promising until it turned into a crumb trap, the espresso machine that was supposed to pay for itself in 76 lattes but instead just stares you down on a Sunday morning while you lace up your shoes for a café run.
These are the tools of culinary self-invention, abandoned but never entirely forgotten. We buy them not just for utility but for the selves they suggest: a weekday smoothie drinker, a person who crisps chickpeas instead of opening a bag of chips, someone who can coax café-quality foam from whole milk. And when they fail us — or we fail them — we don’t just lose counter space. We inherit a little shame, a small shadow of over-consumption, the gap between our intentions and our reality.
Walk through a thrift store and you’ll see it mapped out in miniature: aisles of Instant Pots, bread makers, Ninja CREAMis, all lined up like monuments to good intentions. They are, in their way, cultural fossils, each one marking a moment when we thought a new tool might change who we were in the kitchen.
As conscientious cooks, it’s easy to feel a little bad when that countertop appliance we thought would be the thing—the one that would make weeknights breezy and dinners sparkly—turns out to be a dud. Or at least a dud in our own kitchen. We love cooking here, but let’s be honest: sometimes domestic labor is just labor. It’s natural to hope for a shortcut, a tool, or a gadget that gives you a break, or at least makes things feel a little fun again. Add in the relentless current of over-consumption, and it’s easy to see how your pantry and countertops end up full of objects that promise delight but mostly collect dust.
And yet, I guarantee that for every countertop appliance exiled to the cupboards, there are a few true home-cooking heroes quietly doing their jobs, week in and week out. The 20-year-old rice cooker that bears its scuffs with dignity, but still turns out perfect grains. The coffee maker that reliably starts the morning ritual. The humble spice grinder that makes chopping, crushing or blitzing feel like magic.
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So here’s a gentle reframe: instead of dwelling in the shame or shadow of over-consumption, step into the thrill of responsible rediscovery.
Find your version of the Free Table
Maybe your community doesn’t have an actual free table, but there’s almost certainly a local thrift or resale shop — or even an online swap or pickup group — stocked with kitchenware and countertop appliances waiting for a second act.
A few best practices
Many of these treasures come as-is, so a few scuffs and dings are perfectly fine. Just make sure the bits that need to turn on actually do, and nothing smells burned or funky after a minute of testing. Go in with an open mind. You don’t need a cartful of gadgets — a single, inspiring find is enough to spark a weeknight cooking renaissance. On a recent sweep of my local resale shop, I spotted a bamboo dumpling steamer, a hand-held citrus juicer, three immersion blenders, a bejeweled garlic press, a bin brimming with salad spinners and, of course, an almost shocking number of Instant Pots. Any one of these could transform leftovers, inspire a new technique, or make an ordinary weeknight feel a little ceremonial.
Be a good community contributor, too. There’s a karma to these places: donate well-loved, gently used items, and never use thrift or resale shops as a trash bin.
If you’re striking out at physical shops, turn online. My neighborhood has a “Free To Pick Up” Facebook group that basically functions as a giant virtual free table. There’s also a bartering and swap group where folks negotiate clever exchanges: “I have an unused air fryer. You have an unused desk chair. Want to swap?” It’s surprising how often a little creativity leads to a perfect kitchen match.
Finally, be a good steward of the appliances you do bring home
Planned obsolescence may be the reality of modern home gadgets, but a little TLC can go a long way. Learn to clean, maintain or even repair what you’ve got — or attend a community Repair Fair, where volunteers help fix everything from bikes and clothes to beloved appliances and jewelry. Sometimes keeping a tool alive is as satisfying as discovering it in the first place.
Most appliances will let you down. A lucky few will actually lift dinner, and your week, out of mediocrity. If a thrift-store panini press happens to be among the chosen, consider it your kitchen’s version of a minor miracle. And maybe pat yourself on the back, quietly, for spotting it first.
This story originally appeared in The Bite, my weekly food newsletter for Salon. If you enjoyed it and would like more essays, recipes, technique explainers and interviews sent straight to your inbox, subscribe here.
