I was going to post about my kitchen things on Tuesday. That didn’t go well. The Holy Spirit wanted something else. Go head over and see just what that was…I’ll wait.
I have kitchen utensils, and thingery (that’s new word) that people see and think, why don’t you just throw that out, or you can’t buy a new pot? Seriously? I guess I could but then I wouldn’t be reminded of my life. Or things that have happened. I’m a bit of a pack rat in this regard. For example, I love journals. I have many of them. My first was violated by my mom. Yes, violated. This was a big deal to me back then! It’s because of this peering into my secret feelings that has caused me to continue to love and buy beautiful, intricate journals but if you ever open them, you’ll see they are blank, or worse yet – pages have been torn out of them. I’ve ripped them out. It’s only a recent occurrence that I keep what I write. It’s no coincidence that I began keeping my reflections on my daily bible reading.
This plate looks normal, right? Here are a few things that I think of when I look at it. My mother. It was her plate. I don’t have another one, so it matches nothing. Much like her. I’ve had it for years. As you know, my mother and I are not on speaking terms. But, when I look at this plate, I am reminded of the times we did speak. We would talk about nothing of any importance, but we talked. Granted, I was different back then too. I was the respectful girl that would say yes always. It’s when I decided that I could still be respectful and say no, that things started falling apart. When this plate breaks, I will be sad. So, let’s hope it doesn’t!
This pot is not as old as my memory, the plate, but it comes from my divorce. I remember that I was insistent on getting copper bottom pots and pans because they were, I thought, the best. We split the set when we split. Much like the split, the marriage was easily split. I don’t regret my divorce in the least. It brought me Lexicon, and ultimately my husband, and even further to Christ. All things lead to Christ. What I do regret or remember with this pot is how misguided I was as to what marriage truly was. I wasn’t Catholic. I didn’t understand the Sacrament. All I understood was that I needed copper bottom pots. Read, material possessions.
This is a silly little spatula. A silly little spatula that came with a rice cooker. My stepdaughter, K, as I call her would, after school make rice in a pot with this spatula for our dinner. I am reminded that work should never take precedence over my family again. She had to cook while we were on our way home sometimes to help us out. She doesn’t know it, but this spatula reminds me of cooking with her. I miss her.
This is my spice rack. I use spices all the time in my cooking. Especially, rosemary. As you can see, it’s misspelled. K wrote these when she lived with us. This bottle in particular reminds me that I have to let go. I wanted to write the names of the spices on them, because, well, I just did. I remember her looking at me (because I’m short and she’s tall) and she said, “Can I write the names, Cristina, PLEEEEEASE?” Pen in hand. I looked at how excited she was to just be with me and I let go of my need to control the kitchen and said, yeah sure. She made a mistake, but I kept it. Mistakes are ok to keep. In fact, they can become little treasures when you are making chicken.
I am making love fries in this shot. Love fries are just french fries that I hand cut and deep fry myself in the divorce pot (see #4 above). Little Monk says that these fries are so good because the secret ingredient is love. I am sure you’re guessing that I’ll talk about the fries or the pot again. No. Look at the tongs. See how bent they are? These are my spiritual battle tongs. I was making pasta one evening when I was “coming out” to my husband about being Catholic and believing in God. As you know, or maybe you don’t, he is an atheist. But, the most Catholic atheist to be sure. We were arguing about my “why” for two days straight. I was trying to go the route of imploring peacefully, but we all have our limits as humans. I was stirring the pasta in the *boiling* water with the tongs when I began to slam them on the counter. With every slam I said: I.JUST.WANT.TO.GO.TO.MASS!!! Boiling water splashed on my face (no scarring or damage – it just hurt!) and I bent these tongs. They aren’t easy to use anymore and I have another set, that I rarely use. Why? These remind me that I stood up for my beliefs, that hot water hurts and my husband and I have come a long way.
What are you’re kitchen memories? Maybe you have bathroom memories? Maybe you don’t share those! Kidding. I’d love to know that I am not the only memory pack-rat.
For more Quick Takes, visit Conversion Diary!