My life is full of screens. Most of my screen time comes from the typical tech trifecta: my phone, laptop, and television. But it creeps in from elsewhere: If I want to queue up a song in my car, I do it on the infotainment system. Going somewhere? I’ll plug the address into my GPS, and if that doesn’t work, Waze and Google Maps are back up. Even things that used to require a brief in-person conversation with a human being—signing in at the doctor’s office or ordering a coffee—require tapping, swiping, and scanning.
My kitchen, once a retreat from all that, has followed suit. I’ve always been a recipe-follower, but now instead of opening a cookbook, I pull up recipes on my computer. I’ll scroll through Apple’s podcast library to find something to listen to while I prep. Then I’ll tell Siri to set a timer, then move on to texting or scrolling Instagram while I wait. What used to be a totally analog activity has gone almost entirely digital.
So when I got a pitch about a new mechanical kitchen timer from Caraway, I was interested for reasons that had nothing to do with timing. The tiny timer looked so simple: No screen. No Bluetooth. No app. Just a solid, weighty dial to twist, and a ticking sound that gently marks the passing time.
Now, the five seconds it takes to set a timer on my phone is not the core issue behind my screen dependency. But I got one to try anyway out of curiosity. Baby steps, you know?
The design is clean but very old-school, like something you’d see in Mad Men: a smooth circular shape, easy-to-read numbers, and a satisfying resistance when you turn the dial. The stainless steel timer comes in Caraway’s core colors, including a classic cream, sage green, and mustard yellow. I chose the navy to match my favorite teapot (which also happens to be Caraway). It’s heavy enough that it doesn’t slide around the counter, or in my case, on the top lip of the kitchen stove, and small enough that it takes up barely any space at all.
The timer uses a traditional mechanical design to operate, meaning you have to wind it. If you don’t wind your watches or clocks, this may take some minimal getting used to. Anytime I want to set it, I have to twist it clockwise to the 55-minute mark before I set my desired time in the other direction to effectively load the spring.
The first time I used it, I was roasting vegetables. In the past I’d say, “Hey Siri, set a timer for 25 minutes,” and then inevitably glance at a notification. Instead, I twisted the dial and heard it start ticking. Instead of grabbing my phone, I left it in the kitchen while I went and read a book.
Not to oversell it, but it turns out that, for me, the physical act of setting a timer—of turning something tangible, of hearing it tick—feels grounding in a way tapping a screen does not. It keeps the cooking process contained within the kitchen. There’s also something nostalgic about it; the timer reminds me of baking at my grandparents’ house. The sound is oddly soothing and when it goes off—a nice, high-pitched ring—I don’t have to pick my phone up.
Is a chic, mechanical timer necessary? Of course not. Most ovens have timers, and your phone can time things perfectly well. But that’s like saying you don’t need a cookbook because you can Google a recipe.
Since incorporating this tiny timer into my routine, I’ve noticed I reach for my phone less while cooking. Not never—but less. It’s a small upgrade that makes cooking and baking feel more intentional, more present, and more analog, which—judging from my daily screentime report—I could use these days.