Soup Pot

If a pot could talk, I am sure that my spaghetti/soup pot would have quite a tale to tell.  The countless meals that this precious pot has helped me to make over the years have been filled with just about every type of situation I think I could possibly name.  This pot has been around for the good times, and the hard times, and times when I wondered why I need to even use that pot, because eating the food I was making meant I planned to go on with life.  This pot also has been the symbol of love and family, and all the sweet fellowship that goes with sharing a meal with others.  Indeed, this pot has a story.

            I remember when my first child, Liesl, was born.  She was a permanent attachment to my breast, and I later found out that she didn’t ever really fill up, but used my breast as an all day pacifier.  I remember boiling some water in the pot for spaghetti, and trying to nurse her at the same time.  When her tiny bare foot almost touched the boiling water, I realized that I had carried this nursing thing just a bit too far.  I put her down, let her whimper, and finished the spaghetti without Liesl attached.  It was an amazing feat to eat that spaghetti with a baby suckling at the breast. 

            When my second child, Nathan, came along two years later, I learned the importance of keeping some chicken soup available.  Nathan was my allergy-kid.  He was sick every single month, and his illnesses seemed to cycle in an eerie manner.  So much so, that he was tested for some serious health conditions, but his allergies seemed to be the culprit.  Starting at 4 weeks of age, and then each month thereafter for the first four plus years of his life, we would go through the following:   He would wheeze for a day, then vomit for a day.  Then he would go into a raging sinus infection requiring at least one round of antibiotic.  He would seem to be fine for about a week or so, and then we would begin the cycle again.  Homemade chicken soup seemed to help, or maybe it just made me feel better that I was doing something for my darling little boy.  I know my Jewish Grandmother had me convinced that chicken soup is the best medicine!  And this pot saw us through so many of those under-the-weather days.

            Cooking a meal in my spaghetti pot helps me to feel whole.  Somehow, the ritual of filling the pot with water, and putting the salt in at just the right time before the rapid boil brings me a sense of satisfaction.  Taking the hard, brittle sticks of spaghetti and throwing them into the churning salt-water is like taking the negative parts of my day, and sending them for the ultimate refining.  But stirring the spaghetti brings the most satisfaction.  First the sticks bend slightly, like a subtle warping.  Then they soften and soon become exactly how we like it – curling and whirling around, with each strand touching one another, and somehow connecting all the chaos  --  al dente.

            Sometimes, I like to put my face over the steaming pot to feel the cleansing steam open my pores.  In the winter time, breathing in the salty steam helps to soothe my dry sinuses.  It is just a healing time standing there with my pot.  Some days, I talk on the phone to a friend while waiting for the right time to add the pasta.  Other days, I find it a peaceful time of meditation.

            Now, if it is chicken soup I am making, I need to stand over my pot for quite a while.  First I skim the fat from the chicken and the small particles and foam that float to the top, then cut up the fresh carrots, celery and onion.  Adding the seasonings that make my soup truly a soothing elixir for the soul is the very best part.  Then I have to take out the chicken, and remove the meat from the skin and bones, and add it back(burnt fingers and all), along with the noodles.  I do cheat and use frozen noodles, but it doesn’t seem to matter.  When I take my soup to a friend who just had surgery, or to bring to the table for my family, it speaks the very same whisper of love.

            There were days that my anger melted away over my cooking pot.  Then there were days that the steam seemed to bring my own heat to a boiling rage.  But somehow, after the meal was cooked, the act of preparing, and then cleaning the pot washed away the sadness or angry feelings. 

           

            When I wash my pot, it feels like a friend to me.  We have shared a lifetime of things together.  Somehow the sponge in my hand just feels every bit of surface like a long lost friend to my pot, and it seems almost like there should be some purring as I scrub away the remnants of yet one more bountiful opportunity that I have had to share with others.  There is truly something cathartic about scrubbing away the remnants of food – a reminder that once again, life can be satisfying.

            This same pot boils the eggs to color for Easter.  Oh those Easter eggs!  My last child, Sam, thinks being a sixth grader is too old to worry about doing that sort of thing, yet when I get the pot out and he sees the little dye tablets on the counter just waiting for the eggs to be ready, I know that I have at least one more year to share this blessing at home with my pot.

            Or how about when those first ears of corn are ready to be eaten?  Once the corn has made it into the pot, the silky mess on my counter is cleaned away.  Stripped of the green leaves and strings, the cobs are simply waiting to be enjoyed.  Oh do we love the first batch of fresh corn on the cob! Cleaning away the leftover silk from my pot is yet one more reminder of the enjoyable and wholesome gift we have been given.

            I work many hours outside of my home each week as an Elementary Principal, but certainly the precious memories that I have made over the years with my cooking pot have helped me to form some deep-rooted reasons to wake up each day, ready to tackle the new stresses life brings.  Lessons from my pot have come into focus of late.

             Like my pot, I have learned to keep a strong surface.  The principalship, like any other middle management position puts me in situations where quite often it feels like the pressures from the top and from the bottom and from every side are squeezing the very breath from my soul. Like my pot, I keep a strong exterior and strive to keep my shape.  Holding onto my integrity and values that I hold near and dear truly has become what keeps me coming back to school each day.

            Losing the luster on my pot would be a very sad thing for me, and by the same token, I take care not to lose sight of the light within me.  I know that I was designed for a purpose.  I know it is no accident that I am where I am this very moment in time.  Becoming dull and lackluster would be outward evidence that I do not believe that my life matters.  Like my pot, I need to keep my shine to prove that what is within me is vibrant and purposeful, and has meaning.

            Keeping my pot clean is sometimes a bit of a chore.  Isn’t that just like me?  My mind often wanders to places I should not let it go.  Drifting to the land of    “if-only,” is most likely my worst flaw.  I need to scour my thinking to keep me in the present.  And while it is so much fun to fill the pot and use it for making a meal, the clean up is the hard part, and sometimes downright drudgery.  So too is cleaning the soul and purifying the thoughts.  Oh these lessons from my pot are simply amazing.

            Being versatile is also a good lesson my pot can bring.  From corn on the cob and Easter eggs to catching a leak from the pipes under the sink, and being a clanging toy and container for my toddlers to pull from the cupboard and fill with toys, this pot has certainly played many roles.  It causes me to think about the different hats  that I too have worn, such as daughter, wife, mother, sister, friend, aunt, employee, boss, choir and praise team member, Sunday school teacher, and how about just a child of God?  How dull life would be if a spaghetti pot could ONLY cook spaghetti!

            As I washed my pot again this evening after serving some piping hot chicken soup to our small group meeting in our home, I realized that this pot truly was an amazing symbol of all that is good in a life.  It hasn’t been easy, just as sometimes it takes extra time to clean the residue from the meal, but when it is clean and ready to serve again, it brings hope of a fresh tomorrow.  And isn’t that just what life is really about?