Good cult bad cult?

If you know anything about Thermomixes, you'll know that the TM5 model came after the TM31 model, which had an unfortunate tendency to explode while mixing hot liquids. You'd be standing there waiting for your semi-automated mushroom risotto to finish cooking, and end up in a burns unit, scalded so badly it took weeks to recover.

Hot wet rice sending people to hospital was not a good brand story, but ThermomixTM survived that PR disaster, thanks in large part to its extraordinarily loyal customer base: as anyone who owns a Thermomix will tell you, a Thermomix is not just a kitchen appliance. It's not even just a German-engineered, ergonomically designed, multi-purpose blender with a 500W motor and top-quality stainless steel blades that spin at 10,000 RPM (the same speed as turbines in a jet engine, if you're wondering).

Guys. Please. It's so much more than that! A Thermomix is a way of life. It's an online recipe subscription service, a passionate homemaker community, and a comprehensive cooking philosophy with a small but highly-dedicated following of people who will evangelise about the life-changing impact of their premium pulveriser to anyone who will listen.

Wait. Is it... am I in... is this a cult? What makes a cult a "cult" anyway? A community of people getting a bit intense about something? That seems unfair. Or it is only when that passion turns toxic that the 'c'-word ought apply? This is an inherently tricky area, the proximity to organised religion and political movements make it hard to pin something down as a cult. There's not even an agreed-upon legal definition for the word 'cult' – we identify them through vibes, basically. There are a few common characteristics – a charismatic leader, emotional and psychological manipulation of members, excessive and irrational devotion to the group's teachings, and isolation from mainstream society. (But here's the issue: using that logic, we could also be describing a spin class!)

Look, the Thermomix world is certainly cult-like, there's no denying it. But you know going in that this is no ordinary retail experience. To buy a Thermomix, you have to attend a Thermomix "demonstration party", hosted by an official Thermomix consultant (charismatic leader?) who wears an apron in Thermomix green with the Thermomix logo embroidered on it. This isn't a "party" in the traditional sense. It's a mid-morning gathering of 4-5 women (it's almost always all women) at your cousin's wife's house, Prosecco in hand (psychological manipulation?), glossy Thermomix brochures on the table, enthusiastic ooohs-and-aaahs as the consultant casually shows how her shiny, terrifying machine effortlessly – and in mere seconds! – turns regular almonds into almond flour, regular sugar into icing powder, regular ice into sorbet. (Can't turn regular water into wine, though. One trick short of true religion.)

"IT'S WHISPER QUIET!" you shout over the roar of jet engine food prep (excessive and irrational devotion to the group's teachings?). Your cousin's wife gets a small discount on her Thermomix and a free insulated bowl if any of the attendees also buy one. There's no pressure (really, there's no pressure), which paradoxically makes you even more into the idea. The soft serve raspberry "ice cream" (a blitzed bag of frozen berries) the host serves for dessert is really good. And the built-in scale? Genius.

I spent $2200 on my Thermomix TM5 (guaranteed not to explode). I justified it thusly: I owned virtually no kitchen appliances at the time, so this would be doing the job of several. Plus, I was pregnant with my first child and thought it would be extremely useful for preparing purees. And you know what – it did, and it was! I used my Thermomix a lot for a few years, and I probably annoyed a lot of people talking about it. But the infatuation passed. Now, the most powerful machine in our house sits on the bottom shelf at the back of the impossible-to-get-to corner cupboard. We have the odd fling, for old times' sake. A craving for homemade hollandaise sauce or a demand for meringue will see it briefly return to the kitchen bench. Then it's banished again.

So I guess I've left the cult, but truth be told, my heart wasn't ever fully in it. Despite the gentle pressure to do so at the demonstration party/initiation ceremony, I didn't sign up for the online recipe club, or buy any of the add-ons and accessories. The official Thermomix consultant called a few times over the following months, politely enquiring about how I was finding my new kitchen friend, and asking whether maybe I would like to host my own demonstration party? (No thanks.) She eventually left me alone. My cousin's wife is still a Full On Thermomix Convert, and uses hers multiple times a day. Some aspect of virtually every meal she makes is prepared in the Silver Chamber of Complete Family Nutrition. And that's fine! I'm happy for her. I haven't been ostracised for tapping out, she hasn't cut herself off from mainstream society, everyone is still being normal.

This is, I feel, how all cults should operate. By offering something genuinely good and useful, and providing a supportive community to those who fully embrace it, but accepting that not everyone is going to be wholly, or forever, on board.

Now: let us contrast my harmless Thermomix journey with a bizarre experience I had while share-housing in my 20s. My (newish) flatmate asked me to be home by a certain hour one Tuesday evening so that I could participate in what I thought was a community environmental meeting, but turned out to be a recruitment drive for a personal development program.

There was a lectern set up in our living room. A whiteboard. A circle of chairs, with a bunch of people I'd never seen before sitting on them, all looking profoundly uncomfortable. Josh* adopted a Tom-Cruise-in-Magnolia persona¹, gave us a scripted spiel about ambition and potential and fulfilment and achieving goals. He drew triangles and squares and circles on the whiteboard to help emphasise the key points. I was confused. This all seemed a bit over the top, just to organise a crew of neighbours to help clear the plastic rubbish out of the mangroves down the road.

Then, he gave us each a pen and paper, and told us to write down something we felt we were failing at. It could be our love life, our jobs, our health – whatever. I wrote down budgeting. I'd been wasting a lot of money on kebabs, menthol cigarettes, and elaborate costumes for dress-up parties. (I was in my 20s. No regrets.)

Then – I should have seen this coming – we had to go around the circle and tell everyone what we had written down. Now, I don't know whether the others were there on the same misunderstanding I was (I'd mixed up the name of the program with a well-known conservation group), but I am absolutely certain that no one felt comfortable about this sudden, forced baring of fragile souls with complete strangers. Some people cried, one guy just walked out. (I would have, but where could I go – it was my house!) This demonstration party really needed more Prosecco, and less psychological torture.

It turned out all we needed to do, to turn our failures into successes, was sign up to attend a three-days-and-one-night seminar which offered "breakthroughs" through "transformative learning" that would "dramatically elevate your effectiveness in those areas of life that are most important to you" and would cost $900. No one in that room had $900 to spend, but Josh had the form for our credit card details at the ready, and was really rather insistent that we fill it out. No soft serve – just a hard sell. I was steadfast in my refusal as he hovered over me with his clipboard. It had changed his life – he was positive it would change ours too. I moved out two weeks later.

Still, I think it's natural for people to want to share things they've found that work for them. It's cool you're into CrossFit / sunrise breathwork sessions / naked yoga (do not Google) / the Landmark Forum (do not confuse with Landcare) / pub choir / a high-protein diet. And sure, I'll try it out (please make sure we're on the same page about what I'm trying, though!).

Just please – if it's not for me, let me back out. The secret to being "culty" in the good way, but never crossing over into actual cult territory, is keeping it chill.

*not his real name

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¹ Magnolia: the 1999 Paul Thomas Anderson film – nay, masterpiece – in which Tom Cruise plays a ponytailed, leather-vested, stage-strutting, borderline-demented dating guru. Cruise gives a truly celestial performance of a person bursting at the seams with self-belief, evangelising spirit and a deeply disturbed psyche – his character is essentially an Andrew Tate-style manosphere influencer, before we called them ‘manosphere influencers’. The movie has a stellar ensemble cast and an unforgettable scene where it rains frogs from the sky.