pots and pans (and poem)

scarred pots and pans line our wall.

“it adds character,” I will say.

the meals they have helped me cook.
and sometimes, when I’m all alone in our kitchen, I breathe it in all deep-like
(especially when it’s clean and everything is in its place)

sometimes I call it a machine.
at times, well oiled,
with the good stuff I grab from the restaurant across the street.

the scars on these pans mean so much to me.
they remind me of hours hunched over pots
exhausting my palette for the sake of a few boiled potatoes
or some rich sauce using [almost] too much butter.

I sometimes feel bad for pots that don’t get used.
lookin’ all pretty — hung on hooks like they do in restaurants.
Copper. Now that’s the stuff. Good heating. Long lasting.

Gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous.

Someday.

Someday we’ll have pots and pans like that. But if not, that’s okay.

These will do me just fine.
Day in, day out. Hangin’ there on little black hooks covering what used to be a blank slate of a wall.
Some people hang pictures…I like to hang pots. It’s all the same to me. Art and aesthetic.
Creating. Partners in this whole culinary game.

Solid.

Scarred.

Sacred.

Characters all their own…

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