Pots and Pans and Other Stuff

Twenty two plus years ago when I got married my mother gave me a pot. It is large, oval, and made from cast iron. I use it every day. It is my favorite pot. (Have I ever mentioned that I hate cooking? Or that I'm really bad it? No? Not surprising...I don't like to remind Guapo and the kids of it because they have to deal with it every day. Why twist the knife?)

But back to the pot. It is very old. Many people have admired it and a few have even asked to borrow it but I have been forced to say no. It is, in truth, one of the few things that I don't happily loan out because I can't run the risk of not getting it back. ("Would you like to borrow the dog instead? I know you'll bring him back...") You see, the pot belonged to my grandmother who died in 1950, when my mother was four. This pot, and a bracelet I have on "loan" from my mother are all I have of her.

The idea that I am so attached to some THING is unsettling to me. It goes against my grain. I don't think of myself as a person much attached to things but when I thought about the pot the other day and how attached to it I was, I started to think of the other THINGS I am also attached to. It is quite a list.

I suppose we all have a few things like that-pots, bracelets, a blanket, a photo... And I think that's okay. But still I feel a little guilty because it's a THING. Am I materialistic? (Well, probably, and not just because of the pot but in theory, at least, I frown on this.)

Of course, if I lost all of those things in a fire or theft (really though, what thief would take a pot?) I could carry on. But I would carry on a little less cheerfully, I think. Because when I cook in that pot I imagine Grandma Audrey cooking for my mother in it too and I feel close to her for a bit.

And how can that be all bad?