I hate my food processor. Not because it's a hand-me-down and I only have the chopping blade; it's the most useful, anyway. Or because it's a hassle to get it down from the top if the fridge every time I need to use it. Or that, due to the way outlets in our kitchen are set up, I have to delicately balance it on the edge of a shelf, holding onto the sides while it processes away. Or that it's 110 volts and I lost my converter in our last move (and obviously have yet to replace it), so I fear the Foop is going to explode in my hands, blowing chickpeas, parsley and fingers all over the kitchen. No, I can't hate it for those reasons because it does such a beautiful job of chopping and mixing things; plus, it's so persuasive. I look at a recipe that calls for finely mincing onions, garlic and almonds into a fine paste and the Foop calls to me from its perch: "I would make that job so much easier. Come on. Come on." And the Foop doesn't lie.
No, I hate my Foop because after the euphoria of finely ground onions and almonds has passed, I am reminded what bugs me so much: the fact the stupid contraption takes up all space in my teeny sink, forcing me to wash it before I can add more dirty dishes. The Foop mocks me.
