Is there a Marie Kondo in me after all?

I have never dared to say it out loud, let alone write it down. But I never felt so attracted to the Marie Kondo tribe. I love things, I like to buy a lot, I have not one but two sets of dishes and I really don't like the rolling-folding method of Madame Marie. I love stacks. And thanking a pair of pants for its services, come on, be normal.

But suddenly everything is different. It all started with a new lady who comes to help us once a week. A bit of washing, a bit of ironing. When she had an hour left, I asked if she could take care of the kitchen drawer, because I had seen how it could be done at a friend’s house whom she also helps. My ground zero where no jar ever fit on a lid (I would be a very bad relationship mediator) turned into a little Switzerland where everything seemed to fit. Marie Kondo would have nodded approvingly.

Yesterday my heroine came again. We looked at each other and nodded simultaneously towards the kitchen cabinets. Each with a garbage bag and go, off we went. With everything that was expired, we filled two bags (I’m ashamed, from now on I will improve my life), then I looked at the potpourri of mugs and glasses. The individuals are in a crate, they will soon go to Rataplan, a company that picks up your things for free and gives them a second life.

Then I dived into the big china cabinet. Italian cookbooks with Italian cookbooks, Jamie with Jamie, Ottolenghi with Ottolenghi. Maybe I will actually start cooking from them now, who knows.

And so I clean and flutter through the house. I feel an excitement bordering on addiction when I discover another messy cabinet. Ha. A project for today. My husband thinks our house is a hotel (which is good), our babysitter says it smells like Ajax flower soap here and I run like a little Cinderella and off I go, Marie Kondo-ing through the house.

But folding T-shirts into rolls I am really not going to do and thanking pants either. Even I have my limits.