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It's the smallness of life that counts. It's the routines that save us. It's our connection to simple objects that connects us to everything.
Well, I hear you huff, that's easy for you to say! You whose whole life can be encapsulated in a thimble. No wonder you like thinking small!
I'll ignore that grouchy detractor and return to my moutons. Maybe because of the Covid confinement of the past two years. I am vividly aware of the importance of household objects. Of the household itself. The Lares and Penates? The goddess of the hearth, whose name I used to know but have forgotten though I think she'll forgive me because if there's anything I'm sure of (on my good days) it's that the gods are not vengeful but tolerant of our weaknesses and more forgiving than we are to ourselves.
Where was I? Household objects. I enter my kitchen and am in my own private world. Every item in the room has a meaning, a purpose, or a history—and sometimes all three. I contrast the peace I feel in that room with the malaise, the lack of ease, I feel when out in the world, in others' houses, with other people.
The pots hang over my head much more securely now than when I first hung up that makeshift rack, now that Bob the Builder hung it the right way. Most of the pots are Paderno and most of them were purchased during Paderno's annual sales—and long before the company was sold to the Chinese. A truly house-proud, pan-proud housekeeper would revel in shining the bottoms of those pots. I don't. Occasionally I think I should, but most of the time I don't even give it any thought.
But such great pots. Even unpolished they give me pleasure for their sturdy construction and the evenness of their heat. And for the variety of their sizes: this one and that, two of them in another size—and an appropriate use for each one.
If it's not sacrilegious to say so, I feel a strong communion with my cast-iron skillets. They've been in my life for sixty years, some of them. Others we picked up at garage sales when aging owners realized the skillets were getting too heavy to lift. I'll admit that my left wrist no longer wants me to pick up the ten-inch skillet and tip it over a bowl to empty it. So I work around that little glitch. But it doesn't alter my admiration for these kitchen work-horses.
Moving down the wall from the pots I come to the heavy-duty hot-pads that keep my hands from being burned. Everyone should set aside their cute printed and quilted pads and find a couple pairs of these thick commercial pads, available at restaurant supply houses. Put the cute ones on display wherever you like, but use the heavy ones, which actually protect your fingers.
To the left is the hook for tea towels. The only ones I hang there are the towels handwoven by my friend Elizabeth over the years. Back in the days when we put on a huge Christmas carolling party, Elizabeth would bring a couple of her tea towels as a hostess gift, and that alone made those big parties worth the effort. The towels are part of my daily life, and using them fills me with warmth and appreciation.
Our connection to simple objects connects us to everything.
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com
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