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?
