There is nothing that cannot be solved by a basket. Preferably the wicker ones, so it looks like a woman is both organized and makes her own jam.
The mittens and gloves go in a basket that goes in a drawer. My mittens and gloves, because the other three members of the household put theirs on the kitchen table or on the radiator when they're wet from snow and rain, or they just hang out the pockets of their jackets like wine-box bladders.
Now that fall is approaching we're going to discover the bulbs that were supposed to last for 20,000 years or something have burned out. BUT I have a basket of bulbs and florescents and little sparky halogens under the pantry sink. I bought extras last year so we'd be ready, if the apocalypse is coming, but some of them are dead just from waiting in the dark. Most of the time I forget they're there and buy new ones from the store, which I put in the same basket until it overflows and I have to throw out the old ones.
Baskets are metaphor of course. I thought at the beginning of this essay they were a metaphor for organization. It turns out they're a metaphor for spillage, foreboding and what doesn't fit. I don't make jam either, but I have clipped out the recipe from the paper. Peach, I think.