This year, my husband and I gave each other new pots and pans
for Christmas.
This year, my husband and I gave each other new pots and pans for Christmas.
After we ruled out the sable coat, the yacht and the matching Rolexes, pots and pans seemed like the way to go.
We had each come into our marriage with our own set of cookware, eerily alike and already well-used.
Fifteen years later, they had been boiled dry, dropped, scraped, and wedged into over-full refrigerators enough times that there wasn’t a flat bottom or an intact handle in the lot.
It was time to let them go.
Also, such a mutual gift has a lot of advantages. No worries about size, color or fragrance. We agreed we didn’t want non-stick (scared of chemicals), we didn’t want glass lids (scared of breakage) and we didn’t want to pay too much. Thus prepared, I went shopping, first at local stores, then farther afield until I found the perfect set.
I wrapped the giant box and set it under our tree. What it lacked in surprise value it made up in stature. Even though we both knew what it was, we waited until Christmas to open it.
I actually had my husband open it while I was busy with something else. I left him with clear instructions. By the time I returned, the old pots and pans had to be gone.
Not boxed up for eventual donation.
Not saved for metal working projects.
Not stacked while we decided if any could actually be used on camping trips.
No, I wanted them gone.
As we move into the time of resolutions and fresh starts, I wanted a fresh start in the kitchen. I didn’t want the new saucepans, casseroles and frying pans to look like clutter before they were even broken in. So the old ones had to go.
I wish I could be equally clear on other items. I will save the Christmas cards we received, but how small does a piece of wrapping paper have to be before it’s actually trash?
How far does your big toe have to poke through a pair of tights before they are worn out?
Even worse, there seem to be more and more things that, because of their origin, or history, or plain old good looks, become too precious to part with. They have stories, they have personalities, they speak to me.
Looked at a certain way, almost everything is a souvenir.
So I had my husband get rid of the old pots and pans. I was afraid that if I tried to do it, I would get stuck on “was this yours or mine? Do you remember when the handle got so loose?” and they would sit on the dining table until we figured it out.
As it is, the old ones are gone, and we can start giving the new ones some character.
