We threw the blue saucepan away this weekend.
There wasn’t anything special about this pan. Not really. It was dented and the paint on the outside was flaking and the handle was loose. The nonstick surface inside was still there, but it had started to rust.
So we threw it out.
It doesn’t matter. But it does.
When Brent moved into his apartment in 2008, he had NOTHING. Literally the clothes on his back, his mattress, and a dresser.
But we had to eat. So I stole a saucepan from my mom’s house. My parents were always hoarders when it came to cookware. They wouldn’t miss it.
We cooked Ramen in that pot. We cooked spaghetti. Mac and Cheese. Countless college kid meals slowly transformed into mediocre married people meals, until I became a decent cook. I’ve burnt chili in that pot. I’ve boiled water so long that the smoke detectors went off. I’ve made soup to bring us back to health and I’ve made caramel sauce from leftover pie filling to eat on top of ice cream.
That pot has been there since the beginning. Since our beginning.
I know it’s just a pot. But I was sentimentally attached to it. I used it at least four times a week. Sometimes more than once in a day.
But we threw it out.
And that’s okay.